Flashback: TRIGGER WARNING

TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT

Why is it that the tiniest thing will set me off spinning out of orbit?  I went over to Facebook to look up a rabbi I want to visit when I am in Jerusalem next time, and there on her wall was a comment from that guy I had an affair with last year.  Well, I had high hopes (actually was completely convinced) that it was “the real thing,” but it turned out to be an affair.  So I though I was over it, and was really quite proud of myself for getting out of an abusive relationship before it became addictive (yes, I have a tendency to become addicted to abusive relationships.  Has to do with the way I was raised, according to my psychologist).  Various anniversaries of benchmarks in the relationship came and went, and some I made note of in a casual way and was pleased that I didn’t have a reaction to them, and some I sort of reacted to but not badly and talked it out with my therapist.

Enter Facebook, that double-edged sword of connectedness, whether you want it or not.

I saw his name, and his comment, and a sly comment to a former lover of his who had also commented…..and suddenly (flashback) he was in my bed getting ready to force his cock down my throat, and I freaked out, because unbeknownst to him I had been raped that way, and besides he should have asked before doing something so invasive, and he stopped, and I thought oh, what a good man because he stopped.  Never thought of it that the fact that he would do such a thing “on our first date” was an outrageous disrespect of my SELF, and what I should have done was to throw his ass out of my house and my life then and there.

But I didn’t.  And why?  Because my self image is still where it was forty years ago when I was living on the street for a living and taking pot luck.  Telling some dickhead “no” was not an option.  So that might be why, when push comes to shove,  my reflex is to thank the bastard for not violating me.  For not raping me.

There had been signs, during the long-distance phase of our relationship, that he wanted what he wanted, and objected to my having my own priorities.  But I ignored them and pretended they didn’t exist, for the most part, except for one extreme boundary violation that sent me to bed for three days with a violent PTSD reaction.  But I got over that one too, and soldiered on with the relationship.

Fast forward a few months, and I was in his bed, halfway around the world.  We had just lain down, no contact yet really, and he grabs my hand and pushes it toward his cock, without asking, without any tenderness at all.  That triggered me bigtime. because how many times has that happened to me in the past, against my will or without my wanting it?  I drew back my hand.  Angered, he then grabbed my wrist and forced my hand downward.  I ripped my hand out of his grasp and laid it on his belly.  I should have read him the riot act and gone to sleep on the couch, and taken a cab out in the morning, but instead, “You know,” I whispered in my best whore voice,” you’ll like it better if I do it my own way.”

“Go to hell with your fucking game-playing!” he said, and rolled over, farted, and went to sleep.  I was left shaking, in a cold sweat.  The next morning I packed my bags, but I didn’t leave yet.  I tried to talk to him about the sexual stuff, but he just shouted at me that I was playing games and would not engage with me.

I stayed another week.  We didn’t have sex at all after that.  I was constantly reprimanded: I left the faucet dripping; I left foot prints in the bathtub; I used the wrong knife to cut up fruit (that was a big one, precipitating a screaming fit on his part), I this, I that.  So, since I hadn’t unpacked my bags, I arranged a ride to the other end of the country.   As I was leaving, he staged a scene:

“Are you leaving, just like that?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Do you really want to leave it this way?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll keep in touch, right, we’ll keep this dialogue going, won’t we?”

To this one, I lied “Yes,” because I knew that if I said no he would launch into something that would keep me standing at the door when all I wanted was to walk through it and be gone.

I wonder now, whether I have the capacity to identify a truly good man.  I met a few, during my time on the streets, but they belonged to somebody else.  I’ve met a few since then, but ditto, married or in a relationship.  I think I might be able to see one, but so far my longing for someone to fit the picture I have in my mind and my heart has got me into more trouble than I can begin to describe.  I think the factor of unavailability helps me to see the goodness in a man, because my subconscious believes that a good man is not for me.  Therefore the attractive ones are the “bad boys” who abuse me and do me wrong.

There are exited prostitutes who manage to focus on the nice, sweet guys, I guess, from what I’ve read.  And yes, I did have encounters with nice, sweet guys, and all of them were married, and I don’t know what they wanted with me in the first place, but there you go.  Unfortunately, my life was peppered with rapes of different kinds for so many years, that it’s hard for me to disengage from them enough to pick a guy who is not a brute.  I sometimes fantasize about having a relationship with, say, a paraplegic, someone for whom sex is impossible, but then I remember that all abuse is not sexual, not by a long shot, and it would be just my luck to get into a relationship with someone who was platonically abusive.

I hate to think of living the rest of my years alone, aging and dying alone with no one to share the “golden years (hah!)” with.  Getting old is not for the faint of heart, said my grandmother, crazy as a bat but wise in her way.  But now that I have become a true recluse, I have no idea how to meet a truly good man to share life with.  An interesting one, with quirks I find endearing.  I’d like one who loved me for who I am, craziness and all, who respected and even adored me, and made love fully in mutual agreement.  Is that too much to ask?

Earth Day, And I Am Alive And Well

Earth Day  has always been a challenge for me.  Some of you may be old enough to remember the very first Earth Day, April 22, 1970.  It was a big deal: there had been an environmental consciousness movement rumbling beneath the earth’s crust, and suddenly it broke through in fire and smoke into a real above-ground popular movement with a “Day” all its own!

But that’s not what was happening for me.  I was a misfit 16-year-old, lonely and depressed, and somebody liked my legs, and I got dragged into a dark musty basement and violently raped.  The physical and psychological (not to mention sexual, oh no) consequences have followed me like an unwanted companion all of my life.

Hence, every April 22 since 1970, that would be 42 of them not counting this one, I have had a relapse of the off-the-charts PTSD symptoms that I got courtesy of the events of that day, plus a large dose of depression to go with them.

But.

This year I have been hard at work writing my novel, which is based on the events of that day and the seven months following it.  I have written that scene many times, minutely, going over and over it to make it perfect.  I have submitted it to a few contests as a short short fiction piece, and had it rejected because it was too graphic.  Victory!  I am not pulling punches.  I am not turning away in fear or disgust.  I am writing it like it is, like it was.

And today is once again April 22nd, “The Unhappiest Day of the Year,” as I used to dub it.

But guess what:  I’m not unhappy!  I’m not keyed up with the tension of waiting for the “big one,” the giant wave of PTSD to hit, pulling me under and keeping me inundated until it decides to leave me bedraggled and panting on the sands of release.

I just feel normal.

I grant you, I am a little suspicious of this, but I’m going with it, you betcha.  If this means that all of the agony of describing that day in living color time and time again has allowed it to flow out of my head via the miracle of touch-typing, then I thank all the gods and goddesses there are, even the ones I don’t know about.

Happy Earth Day, people.

Sometimes A Scream

Photo on 2013-04-20 at 21.37

 

Sometimes a scream

Gets stuck behind

My breastbone

It’s the one for when

I gave my dog away

130 pounds of

Black Alsatian sweetness

He didn’t like my boyfriend

I should have kept the dog

That dog knew my heart

And now my heart is hurt

And that scream, stuck behind

My breastbone

Has no way to get out

Sometimes a scream

Gets jammed in my windpipe

In my voicebox, really.

It’s the one for when

I closed the office door

For the last time:

Children’s Health Care

Office Closed.

I locked that door myself

But I left something inside

A chunk of bleeding flesh

It looks like a piece of my liver,

The one that is stuck in my windpipe

Trying to scream.

Sometimes a scream

Struggles with my lips,

As I fill the compartments

Of my medication boxes

One, two, three, seven

Pills for tonight

More for the morning

All to keep me from

Screaming and screaming and screaming.

National Child Abuse Awareness Month: Verbal and Psychological Abuse

Child Abuse Can Be Prevented

Child Abuse Can Be Prevented

“You’re nothing.”  ”You’re useless.”  ”You’re shit.”  ”Can’t you do anything right?”  ’Well if you don’t know, I’m certainly not going to tell you.”  ”You couldn’t find your ass with both hands and a flashlight.  (laughter)”  ”You’re too sensitive.”  ”Grow some skin/a thicker skin.”  ”Fat ass.”

Just a few of the loving epithets hurled at me daily.  I never did grow that “thicker skin,” so I always dissolved in tears and ran out the door, if the weather was good, or up to my room to hide under the covers while the rage downstairs continued with slamming cupboard doors and curses muttered and shouted in mounting fury.

I know what it’s like to go on tiptoe, to see what the “mom weather” is like at the moment, and how to disappear quickly.

I know how to appease the rabid beast, by bringing bribes of flowers and candy and “I love you” handmade cards.

I know how to avert the armageddon, at least temporarily, by making a surprise dinner (although since I allegedly did not know how to do dishes, and this was a thing so simple that any idiot could do it and therefore I should not need to be taught, unless of course I was an idiot, dinner could be a shark tank).

I know how to have suicidal fantasies.  In fact, I know how to commit suicide.  I just haven’t done it.  Yet.

I know how to get straight “A’s” in school in order to please her.

I know how to get a bachelor’s degree, a master’s degree, and a Doctor of Medicine degree, to please her.

I know how to run away from home, when the pain got too much:  first, at age 16, to the other side of the country; and later, at age 50, to the other side of the world.  Both helped for a while.

And yet: and yet….even now, when she is 86 years old and I have dragged myself out of my personal heaven in Jerusalem to help her, one word, one look, and I am that terrified child, nauseated, shaking with terror and homicidal rage.

I have touched her twice: once when I was 16 and she had seized hold of me when I was doing the dishes wrong…I grabbed her by the wrists, wrenching her clawing hands off of me and pinning her against the wall of the kitchen.  She spit, struggled, kicked at me, but I held her till she went still and met my eyes.  I could feel my eyes burning into hers and knew I had won that round, the first and the only.  I threw myself away from her and ran out the back door, not daring to come in until after dark and my father was home.

The second time happened only a few years ago.  We were sitting at the dining room table.  I don’t remember what set her off, but she grabbed my forearm with her claws, and I grabbed her wrist and ripped it off my arm and threw it away from me.  She continued as if nothing had happened.  I desperately wanted to pound her into mush, but I swallowed my rage and pretended there was nothing wrong.  Nothing at all.

Maybe I am thinking of these things, not only because of my Child Abuse series, but because the anniversary of my last failed relationship is coming up.

My psychologist, who I have known for ten years (and perhaps more importantly, has known ME for ten years) and who has seen me through a number of relationships, tells me that a healthy man would not feel right to me because I don’t know what a healthy relationship is.  At first gasp that seems like a negative thing to say, doesn’t it?  But really it’s quite true.  I grew up with a harpy for a mother, and a father who, although I love him dearly, was quite content to step aside and let the chips fall where they might, and hand me his handkerchief afterwards to dry my tears, making excuses for my mother:  she had her period, she was having a hard day, blah blah blah.

Years later when I was in my Pediatrics residency there were posters everywhere that showed a little girl curled up in a corner crying, and a caption that said, “Words can hit harder than a fist.”  I remember looking at those posters, puzzled, wondering what that could mean.  Words can hit harder than a fist.  I actually did not understand the meaning of those words.  In fact, it was not until recently, 25 years later, that the meaning dawned on me.  Verbal abuse can be more damaging than physical abuse.  And I realized why it has taken all these years for me to “get it”:  PTSD.  It was just too traumatic to let into my psyche at that time.  I was not in a safe place, and I had not had the distance from my abuser that would allow me to process that statement: Words can hit harder than a fist.

I am lumping verbal and psychological abuse together for now, because I cannot parse them out.  There are certainly other psychological ways of abusing children (and adults), but from where I am standing at this moment they seem all tangled up together, verbal and psychological and emotional.  I plan to work on this over the next few days and see if I can untangle them, and be more clear.

I know what it is to be confused.

Child Abuse PTSD

Noga the Wonder Dog I really do intend to get through Child Abuse Awareness Month.  And I really do intend to impart what I hope will be useful information, along the way.  It’s just that talking (writing) about child abuse triggers my PTSD to the extent that I am schlepping myself around exhausted, not particularly eating, and not particularly interested in anything much.  And then there are the dreams.  Good thing I have little Noga to keep me entertained with her hijinks and motherly kisses.

I have flashbacks about the little 9 month old who had learned how to turn over and try to wiggle away from having his diaper changed, so his father grabbed him by both legs and gave him a few vigorous shakes, so that he broke both his legs.  That baby turned out to have multiple rib factures in various stages of healing, so it looked like nobody had much patience for him.

Or the little girl who came in from the Souther Tier, always a bad sign.  The Southern Tier is a set of mountains south of Rochester, NY, where things go on that make the movie Deliverance look like Mary Tyler Moore.  This girl kind of stumped us for a while, because of the polka-dot pattern of  three-inch-diameter burns over her whole body.  Her parents, who were filthy, with greasy locks, reeking of beer, were no help at all.  They only brought her in because several of the odd burns had become infected.  One of the professors in the ER that day solved the mystery:  he brought over a light-bulb, and voila! The end of the bulb fit the burns exactly.  The parents eventually admitted that they had been “disciplining” the girl by applying the end of a lit table lamp to her skin.  I’m happy to say the girl was whisked away into the hospital, where she was healed of her physical wounds, and got to do play therapy and art therapy and music therapy and even school, which she had not had the opportunity to attend while languishing in the Southern Tier. She was placed in a good foster home and eventually adopted.

It was not unusual to see intentional injuries that simply don’t compute, at least not to me.  A grandmother “disciplined” her grandbaby by pouring black pepper down the baby’s mouth.  The baby died, and on autopsy was found to have its windpipe completely packed with pepper.  Another grandmother gave her grandbaby an enema of boiling water.  That poor child lived, but had to have five feet of intestine removed, and multiple reconstructive surgeries to try to avoid the year-old baby having to grow up with an ileostomy (wearing a bag on its abdomen to collect stool).  An irate babysitter held a toddler under scalding water in the bathtub, resulting in third-degree burns over 100% of the child’s body.  He died.  And the list goes on and on.

Children chained to their beds, brought in with some incidental illness, and we see the raw and scarred ligature or handcuff marks.  A teenager who was raised in a crawlspace under the house, and was essentially feral, brought in because he had vomiting and diarrhea.  Otherwise, he would have spent his entire life in the crawlspace.

Why did they do these horrible things to their children?  They were bad children, said the caretakers (torturers I say).  Bad children, so they deserved to be burned, imprisoned, tortured, some tortured to death.

I am not crying now, and that is because I dissociate when I think about these things.  But I am making a lot more typing mistakes than I usually do, so that shows that it’s getting through somewhere.  I want to get hold of those parents, grandparents, babysitters, and do the same things to them that they did to their children.  Break their bones.  Burn them with hot light bulbs and lit cigarettes. Etc, etc, etc.  It’s amazing how creative these monsters can be at torturing their children.  We’re not talking getting carried away with a spanking here, we’re talking thinking up things to do to cause grievous physical harm.

The key to avoiding many of these atrocities, I think, starts at birth.  It’s a great time to screen for child abuse risk.  Have a good look at the mother and father.  Watch how they relate to each other.  Watch how the mother relates to her newborn.  Is she in love with her new baby, or does she only want to sleep, and when the nurse brings her the baby to feed, does the minimum required and sends the baby back to the nursery so she doesn’t have to be bothered with it?

Social workers can help immensely, especially if they can make home visits to at-risk families.  There’s nothing like going to someone’s home to get a sense of what really goes on there.  That’s one of the reasons it distresses me that physicians seldom make house calls anymore.  If you only see the baby when the mother (or other caretaker) brings them in for their shots, you really only have a snapshot of what the home environment is like; although let me tell you, some of the routine office visits I’ve had have been hair-raising: if this is how they treat their kids at the doctor’s office, what must it be like at home???

I’ve managed to give you some snippets of what’s causing my child abuse PTSD.  These are only a few of the things I have seen.  I am going to try to soldier on with this, and hopefully manage to navigate through some of the other types of child abuse that damage our children, who grow up to be damaged adults.

National Child Abuse Awareness Month: Statistics

Child Abuse Can Be Prevented

Child Abuse Can Be Prevented

Having not quite recovered from the PTSD triggered by yesterday’s post, I’d like to offer you some sources on child abuse statistics.  They come from reliable sources, e.g. the Childhelp Foundation, which is a very user-friendly but slightly inaccurate source: for instance they estimate that fewer that 10% of children will be victims of sexual abuse, and the actual number is between 20-25%.  Maybe what they mean is that at any point in time 10% are being sexually abused.  I could buy that.  But it’s a good place to start, and gives a broad overview of the societal consequences of child abuse.

The U.S. Department of Health and Human Services’ Child Welfare Information Gateway swings to the other end of the pendulum: way, way too much information for the average bear, but if you are looking for statistics on anything and everything to do with child abuse you will find it here.

If you’re following along with this series, it would be good to take a look at these resources, just to familiarize yourself with the scope of the problem.  You’ll find some astonishing (in a bad way) historical trends over the past decade that make me wonder what kind of pressures are being put on society that causes people to lash out at our most precious possessions, our children.

But are our children really our possessions, or are they placed in our stewardship to raise the way we see fit?  That’s another discussion, isn’t it?  What do you think?

National Child Abuse Awareness Month: Signs of Physical Abuse

Boy am I having a hard time with these posts.  Maybe it’s because I spent 20 years in the trenches as a pediatrician, many of them in the emergency departments of hospitals large and small.  I know I have a hefty case of PTSD from it all, because when I even think of writing these things my stomach goes into a knot and I have an almost uncontrollable urge to bolt.

In today’s post I want to talk about signs of physical abuse that everyone who interacts with children should know about, and be alert for, and know what to do if they see them. I went to my usual source for slides and looked at them, and found that I am no longer capable of looking at color slides of abused children without getting sick.  I guess that’s a good sign, because it means that at least I am no longer capable of dissociating when I look at the patterns of injury.  I had been planning to include some slides with this post, but now I’ve decided I won’t, because they are so heart-breaking that I really don’t want to put them up.

I used to have a slide lecture distributed by my professional organization, the American Academy of Pediatrics, that I took around and showed to teachers, school nurses, volunteer firemen, and anybody else who wanted to hear the talk or who I thought ought to hear it.  I stood up there, brave professional woman, and showed them all these gruesome pictures of inflicted injuries, knowing full well that some of the people in the audience had been abused themselves as children, and that some of them had inflicted injury on their own children.  I must have given that talk well over 50 times, and I never got through one without at least one person in the audience breaking down in tears.  It’s a hard subject.

But even harder is for the subject not to be broached, and for those who are the most likely to be on the front lines of child care to be ignorant of the signs.  How many of us have heard, over and over, about children who have had multiple reports made to Social Services regarding suspected abuse, and the case is neglected, and the child dies?  These children are dying of nothing less than torture.  So if we see or hear something that makes us suspect that a child is being abused, REPORT IT!  Where do we report it?  We usually start with the Department of Social Services, or DSS.  If they don’t act promptly, call 911.  And if you in any way suspect that a child is being abused RIGHT NOW, call 911.

Patterns of Injury

We all know that children run around careening off of every object in their world, including one another, and they all get bruises, cuts, and scrapes; sometimes they even break a bone getting torpedoed off the trampoline or crashing on their bikes.  My own son broke both of his wrists (not at the same time): one by flying over the handlebars of his bike, and the other in an unintentional (on his part) game of roller-derby.  His teacher called DSS on me.  I said, good on her!  Then he broke both of his legs, one getting tackled while playing flag football in sixth grade, and the other playing Varsity football in high school.  Nobody called DSS about those.

There are places that you normally see bruises, scrapes, and cuts: knees, elbows, cheekbones, eyebrows.  Those are the places that stick out and get whacked on inanimate objects.  And the bruises don’t look like anything in particular; they’re usually oval-ish or irregularly shaped.  Cuts are usually jagged and also over bony prominences: how many of you and/or your children have a scar on your eyebrow?  That’s because that’s the part of your face that hits the ground first.  It IS a part that gets hit by a fist first too (besides the nose), but for some reason we see this less in abuse and more in adolescent fights.

So if you see a child who has bruises on the upper arm, as if someone grabbed him, or on her back or the backs of her legs, especially if the marks are linear (as a belt would make) or in loops (electrical cord) or any other pattern, that is very likely inflicted injury.  One interesting exception is the pattern of red marks running parallel to the upper spine that the Oriental folk medicine practice of “coining” makes (rubbing up and down with a coin, usually meant to treat chest congestion), or the circular red marks of cupping, also on the back and sometimes chest.

Babies who are not yet walking, and especially if they are not pulling up on things and falling down, should NOT get bruises.  They don’t do anything that causes bruises!  Bruises can sometimes be accidental, such as a baby rolling off the changing table or couch; in those cases the caretaker is usually frantic with distress over the event and seeks medical care immediately.  That usually (but not always) rules out abuse.  But if you see a slap mark on the baby’s face or anywhere else, that’s abuse.  Bruising on the ears is a red flag for hard slapping.  Bruising over the abdomen can mean internal injuries and must be seen in the emergency department immediately.

Burns

Older kids do get burned, but the cause is always explainable: playing with fire, for instance.  Cigarette burns on an older child signal abuse: that child is probably being abused in other ways also.  Toddlers sometimes get accidentally scalded.  I have seen some horrendous accidental scalds from toddlers pulling electric tea kettles over on themselves.  Since babies’ and toddlers’ skin is so thin, it only takes a moment to produce a full-thickness (third-degree) burn in a small child.  Burns to be concerned about from a child-abuse standpoint are any burn that looks like it has a pattern to it, whether it be the punched-out holes of a cigarette or the “stocking-glove” pattern of a child who is literally dipped into hot water and pushes away with its hands and feet, so that mostly the hands and feet get burned to the same extent.  Some brilliant caregivers get angry with a child who is being potty trained and has an accident, and immerse their bottoms in scalding hot water.  I can’t imagine what goes through these sadists’ minds.  I won’t go through all the varieties of burn patterns, but at this point (if you’re still with me) you get the idea that if there is a pattern to the burns and/or bruises, it’s most likely inflicted injury and must be reported immediately.

Broken bones

It’s hard for a lay person to assess broken bones in patterns of abuse.  One thing that is clear, if you are a caregiver such as a babysitter or a daycare teacher, is that if a baby who was crawling, pulling up, cruising along the furniture or walking, suddenly stops doing this, there’s something wrong.  If the baby simply won’t move a limb or cries when you move it for him, there’s something very wrong.  Report this and don’t be afraid.  Much better to make a report and be wrong than let a baby or child be battered at home.  Amazingly, most small children who come to medical attention for one broken bone are found, on X-ray, to have multiple broken bones in various stages of healing, indicating that this poor child has been repeatedly battered to the point of breaking multiple bones.

One notable exception to the rule that refusal to move a limb means it might be broken is the pesky “nursemaid’s elbow.”  It’s and accidental injury that comes from holding a small child (9 months-3 years) by the hand, and putting tension on the arm, such as swinging the child across puddles (fun!), pulling the child along by the hand because it has suddenly stopped (who has not done this?), or, in the case of my own child, holding the child by the hand and then he suddenly sits down.  Blam!  It pulls the head of one of the two bones in the forearm (the radius) out of its socket, and then it gets stuck and can’t get back in.  My ex-husband was taking my spaghetti-sauce-covered two-year-old son to the sink to wash him off, when my son suddenly sat down, and his screams nearly blew the roof off.  I was an intern at the time, and I had not yet seen a case of “nursemaid’s elbow,” so as we rode to the emergency department I spat all kinds of venom at my ex regarding what I was going to do to him for breaking our child’s arm.  My Pediatrics program director met us at the ER and very kindly explained the innocuous nature of the injury and talked me down from my murderous rage, and showed me how to fix the dislocation (actually it’s a subluxation, but that’s a technicality).  My first case of  subluxation of the radial head, a.k.a. “nursemaid’s elbow.” Some kids have very flexible elbow joints, as did my son: his injury recurred many times, the last time being when he was five years old and was shutting the car door.  The wind caught the door and pulled his radius out and he gave a shriek.  I jumped out and ran around to his side; but by the time I got there he had already fixed it himself.  He was very proud of that, as you may well imagine.

Well, I seem to have managed a few words here on physical abuse.  I may have to take a day or two off now, before I dive back in, as the next topic on the list is sexual abuse; not anything that anyone ever wants to talk about, including me.  But it must and will be talked about.

National Child Abuse Awareness Month: Types of Child Abuse

Child Abuse Can Be Prevented

Child Abuse Can Be Prevented

To tell you the truth, this series is painful for me to write.  For one thing, it’s triggering my PTSD because I was abused as a child.  For another thing, it’s triggering my PTSD because I worked with a child abuse response team member for several years, after which I became an expert witness for a county prosecutor’s office on child sexual abuse.  It’s gut-wrenching work.  But it’s so important to talk about.

For instance, January was Human Trafficking Awareness Month.  I found myself studying the dark pathways by which children end up trafficked into prostitution.  The common thread was abuse at home, which left the youngsters (and I do mean young: the average age of entry into prostitution is 11-14) vulnerable to grooming by “lover-boy” pimps, who take advantage of the girl’s need for love and acceptance, and then funnel them into prostitution.  So sad and wrong.

And that in its turn got me thinking again of the various patterns of abuse that can betray a child’s innocence and indeed rob a child of its childhood completely.

And those patterns of abuse include (and this is by no means a comprehensive list):

1.  Physical abuse, where harm is done to the child’s body with the intent of causing pain;

2.  Sexual abuse, which ranges from inappropriate sexual touching, other sex acts including intercourse, exposure to sexually explicit media, forcing the child to act as a model for pornographic images or video, forcing the child to perform sex acts with others (either children or adults), and more.

3.  Verbal abuse.  I cannot stress strongly enough how terribly destructive verbal abuse is.  It tears down a child’s self esteem and leads to depression and despair, eating disorders, self-harming behaviors, substance abuse, and other self-destructive patterns including suicide.

4.  Emotional abuse.  Typically a push-me, pull-you pattern of drawing the child in through affectionate behaviors and then violently pushing the child away, often using verbal and/or physical abuse.   Emotionally abusing parents will often reverse the parent-child role relationship, so that the child feels responsible for the parent’s well-being.  This is often associated with parental substance abuse.

5.  Psychological abuse.  This is a deliberate program of tearing down a child’s self-esteem for the benefit of building the parent’s ego.  The abusing parent envelops the child in a net of control, holding the reins very tightly, and playing on the child’s emotions as on the keys of a piano.  This type of parent is extremely intelligent, insecure, and is often the product of a highly abusive home.  S/he is highly narcissistic and needs complete control over everything.  Think “Mommy Dearest.”

All five main types of child abuse are forms of torture that produce permanently wounded people.  The extent to which they are able to recover, once out of the abusing environment, seems to depend on the resiliency of their temperament.  I’ve known resilient people who were horribly abused as children, yet grew up to be happy, well-adjusted adults.  And I’ve known less resilient people who’ve ended up so permanently damaged that they fell into addiction and eventually suicide.

What can we do to help?

For one thing, if we have contact with children through our work (teachers, health care workers, day care workers, lunchroom ladies, bus drivers, hairdressers/barbers, etc. etc. you get the idea), we can be on the lookout for telltale signs of abuse, and not be shy about reporting suspicions to the Child Protective authorities.  In fact, certain professionals are mandated to report suspected abuse: teachers, health care workers, and anyone whose job primarily involves children.

In my next post, I will describe some features of each form of abuse, so that you will know what to look for.

National Child Abuse Awareness Month: Introductory Remarks

Prevent Child Abuse ribbonAs I stand on tiptoe, readying myself to launch into what is going to be a very important yet extremely painful month of campaigning, I have to take a moment to remind myself to breathe deeply; that this is not the first time I will be writing and testifying about these things; and that the pain in my chest and throat that I am feeling right now is not a heart attack: it is PTSD.

As some of you may know, I am an Adult Survivor of Childhood Abuse.  I carry a significant burden of PTSD from that.  It’s possible that my experiences as an abused child made me a better Child Abuse Investigator, when I was in practice as a pediatrician.  It certainly fueled my later career as an Expert Witness for the prosecution in child abuse cases.

In the coming days and weeks I hope to write my first-hand experiences as a pediatrician specializing in Child Abuse.  It will not be pretty.  Some of you might not want to read it.  That’s OK, I understand.

I’m uploading the Prevent Child Abuse ribbon for my sidebar.  I encourage you to swipe it and share it liberally.  Children are our treasures.  They depend on us to protect  them.  They have no one else.

My Mother and Allen Ginsberg’s Kaddish

Some non-Jewish people know what Kaddish is.  Some Jewish people also know what Kaddish is.  I would guess that more Jewish people don’t than do, because of the secularization of the Jewish people due to the Holocaust and subsequent rush to blend in with whatever dominant culture we found ourselves washed ashore in, those who escaped the ovens.

Kaddish, for those who don’t know, is a Jewish prayer that is an integral part of observant Jewish life.  It is best known as the “prayer for the dead,” although death is never mentioned in the prayer itself.  It is, in fact, a joyous song of praise, enumerating the awesome powers and grace of the Almighty.  It is indeed said at Jewish funerals and at each of the three daily communal prayers, on behalf of the departed, for eleven months.  But it is also said many times during each prayer service, as a marker that divides the different segments of the service.  There are wonderful mystical reasons for this, having to do with elevating the congregation up through the layers of world upon world that lead to complete unification with God.  Most religious Jews don’t know these things, but say the prayers by rote.   Much knowledge has been lost in the years of our physical and spiritual exile.

My parents are among the first-generation children of immigrant parents from Russia and Poland who escaped the Holocaust as children, and had no religious background whatsoever.  Correction: my father’s father was the child of a Hassidic rabbi from Prussia, and his mother was the daughter of a rabbi in the Ukraine.  Both were sent out of their respective countries as children, experiencing exploitation and multitudinous horrors on their way to New York City, where they met and became members of the Communist Party, rejecting their religion out of bitterness; so my father was brought up without religion, to endure antisemitism on a strictly genetic/racial basis.

My mother was raised in a mildly religious environment, but it never really rubbed off on her.  She came away with a few legends and fears, but quickly learned how to cook pork ounce she was out of her culturally kosher home, throwing out the baby with the bathwater.

My mother likes to throw things out.  She threw out her rudimentary Judaism once she was free of the parental home.  She likes to keep a tidy house, so she throws out anything that seems out of place.  She has thrown me out many times.  I have kept coming back, out of a childish wish that she would all of a sudden become the Good Fairy Mother, but that has not happened yet and as she is 86 and I am nearing 60, I don’t think it is likely to happen.

My mother has two sides: childlike, and childish.  Her childlike side is quite charming.  She is filled with wonder at a pair of redbirds on a bush, deer in the yard, a squirrel sitting on a railing eating corn she has put out for it.  She adores her cat with something approaching sexual love.

On the other hand, when tired or vexed she will burst into childish tantrums, cursing and belittling, mocking, slamming doors and kicking the dog.  And throwing things out.

The other day she was in a childish mood, a mild one, and concentrating on throwing things out.  She can’t throw me out at the moment, because she needs my help with my invalid father, but she can throw his things out, and that’s what she was up to.  I happened along just as Allen Ginsberg’s volume of poetry Kaddish was hitting the dust bin.

“Why are you throwing that out?” I asked.  I noted that their once voluminous library seemed to have shrunken, and wondered how many old friends of my youth had gone the way that Kaddish seemed destined.

Kaddish,” she shuddered, twisting her face in horror.  I got it.  Kaddish, the “prayer for the dead.”  Death is lingering around our house now.  In a way it is a marvel: every new day a gift, if my father is still living.  Nevertheless it is a spectre hovering, palpable to all.  I understand: Kaddish is an unwelcome resident here.  I fished it out of the waste basket and dusted it off.

“I’ve never read this,” I remarked.

“Take it,” she said. “Get it out of this house.”

I did.  I took it to The Studio, my father’s old studio where I now reside.  And began to read.  On the first page, Ginsberg is mourning his mother’s death, pacing his living room and saying Kaddish aloud, alone, which is something one is never supposed to do because the prayer is so powerful it could be damaging without the power of ten people to say it.  But there he is, the power of his grief holding him safe in his living room, crying out loud the poem of God’s greatness to the Universe.

His mother died of insanity.  It struck her like a brick to the head when Ginsberg was a young child, and he spent his childhood accompanying her on trains and buses from one institution to another, until she finally ended up in Bellevue, the end of the line, and when countless shock treatments failed, the lobotomy.  She quickly grew old, and died at the age of 60.  My age.

He never gave up on his mother, and he never stopped loving her.  His family spiralled into collective dysfunction around her.  But it seemed to me that somehow he was able to extract, and treasure, the remnants of the delightful, dignified woman his mother once was, and carry that in his heart always.  It made me smile and cry.

I have never been able to feel that way about my mother.  Perhaps it has something to do with the stories she likes to tell about how I was such an idiot as a baby to climb out of my crib and fall onto a radiator, necessitating a trip to the emergency room; or another time, when, at seven months of age I disrupted dinner by climbing into a cupboard and getting hold of a bottle of Tabasco Sauce, which I somehow got all over me, burning my skin and prompting another visit to the emergency room.

These things, and more, might explain why I recoil at her touch, and why I break into a cold sweat at the sound of her voice.

Reading Ginsberg caused me to go inside and feel what I would feel when at last my mother dies (which is not likely to be for a very long time, given the longevity of her branch of the family, who often live to be 100 or more).

What did I feel then, when I went inside?

Relief, yes.  And grief: for the mother I never had.

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