A dear friend of mine is an autism specialist. We’ve been toying around with doing a podcast on Neurodiversity and the effects trauma has on ASD. These are her initial interview questions. I found them very therapeutic to answer. As per my usual, I overshare. Here’s another overshare.
Tell us a little about yourself:
Gosh, that feels like a loaded question. I very clearly can tell you who I used to be. I can give you titles, “former RN,” “former daughter,” and “former doormat.” I am an educated, slightly hysterical, intelligent woman who used to matter to others.
Over the past few years, however, I realize that it was primarily the services I offered that kept me mattering. I’m an open book tons of strangers read, but few people who enjoy going to Target, like me, want to read. That’s just my perception, however, and I don’t always read the room properly, especially when the room is mainly in my head.
Very briefly, where are you today?:
Physically, I’m in a tiny town in Cecil County, Maryland. I have a beautiful home I couldn’t afford anywhere else. As for where I am emotionally, I’m oddly peaceful, in spite of not being super comfortable leaving my house. I’m glad it’s big. I get cabin fever, just like everyone else. I guess, “Where are you today,” can best be answered with, “the same place I am absolutely every day, which is rarely leaving my house.
Tell us about growing up:
What do you get when two formerly divorced people get remarried and have a few more kids? You get an unhappy marriage you use the kids to understand. My folks had two kids in the 1960’s, divorced for five years, then remarried and had two more kids in the late 1970’s.
My mom was adopted and always felt like she’d be returned to an orphanage if she wasn’t perfect. My mother “taught” me how to mask. I was given manners lessons from Miss Charm School, herself. She married my father, not knowing he’d become extremely zealous about Christianity in the mid 1970’s. She didn’t know she’d marry a man who would start a Christian commune in Reno, Nevada one day. She got duped, I suppose.
My father is one course short of his doctorate in Divinity. He has his master’s, he wrote and then self-published a series of books on the early Christian church. He is extremely smart, to the point of his own detriment. He is also too smart to the point that he detonated our relationship with the ability to hyper-rationalize years of neglect and occasional abuse.
I will write forever on this question. Assume I went to every kind of church that could church as a kid. I went to a Mennonite school for years until I was sexually abused and we had to leave the school. I grew up both utterly sheltered, but never once felt protected.
What were some of your earliest memories about feeling “different?”:
I was held back in first grade and had to repeat it. I remember, at the time, my mom hyper-focusing on the fact that I was “brilliant” and “It isn’t YOU, it’s your poor handwriting.” I never let that go because eventually my nickname became, “short-haired, fat girl, so stupid you had to stay back in the first grade.” My brother may not remember that nickname, but I do.
Me feeling that from my brother isn’t when I felt different. I felt primarily different, when I became obsessed with my handwriting; cursive especially.
I am quite a mimic. I studied my parent’s handwriting and mastered their signatures and each tiny other letter. They both have gorgeous penmanship. Eventually, my handwriting would become so lovely, doctors and nurses I worked with would praise it when they saw it. I mastered the thing I “failed” at because I was always very different.
Your school experience:
I went to Mennonite school from grades 2-6. I had to leave a few weeks before the school year ended in 6th grade because I had been molested for two years from a parent at the school. Once it went to the police, it got tense.
I went to public school in grades 7, 8, and half of my 10th grade year. I became a Christian when I was 14. Going back to school for 9th grade, for some reason, paralyzed me with fear. I never wanted to stick out growing up. Fitting in mattered so much to me back then. Becoming a Christian, at least an Evangelical Christian, meant I was now demanded to stick out. That was the expectation. I was always supposed to be a witness for Jesus. I was a scared Christian so I decided to home school.
My parents both worked full-time so my high school education was solo. My dad would grade tests for me, but no one TAUGHT me. No one. I stumbled in math so occasionally my dad explained things.
The system I used in high school was this: do one course at a time. The school district would review a binder we made to ensure that the work was appropriate for the grade I was in. They got the binder at the end of the year, so how it got filled didn’t matter.
I did all of math first because I hated math and wanted to get it over with. I always did my least favorite thing first so I could end on a high note. My kiddo does this, too. Doing this helped keep my brain focused on one thing instead of six or seven. I’ve always found it helpful to bathe in one thing at a time so I could retain as much as possible.
I was determined to make up for being in 1st grade twice. I completed my Junior and Senior year simultaneously and graduated a year early. Graduation was held in a church in Souderton, Pennsylvania. It was awkward as HELL. I distinctly remember the valedictorian mentioning “manatees” far too many times in his speech. True story.
Experience with friends, clubs, talents, interests while growing up and in school:
Friends, I always had. Most of them had stronger personalities than I did. That’s hard to believe now. I was always in transition, based on the school information, I’m sure you can see why.
I had separate friend groups. I had school friends. I had very different friends at church and youth group. The friends I made in my neighborhood would be the ones I did most destructive behaviors with.
The school friends were primarily for school and weekend stuff. The neighborhood friends were for down time at home. I smoked a lot of pot as a kid. (pre-age 14) and hung out with several men in their 20’s who would take advantage of me and some of my friends. At the time it seemed cool as hell, but most people don’t decide to have sex at age 12 and smoke pot in tree forts with 27 year olds.
Friends in church, many I still speak to now even though I haven’t been to church since I was about 19. I was a singer in church. I sang for thousands on occasion. I hated performing but adored singing. I discovered that my ability to harmonize is pretty decent and my “lullaby voice” blended nicely in groups.
I was never really encouraged to do sports, but I tried out for la crosse. I didn’t want to be on the team once I had a boyfriend though. I was always dating. I always had a boyfriend. I was a serial monogamist.
I was primarily involved in church and with volunteering as a mentor for some kids in a therapy group a man at my church ran. My talents are service oriented, I believe.
When and how did you meet your abuser?:
In the Mennonite school, the classes were tiny. Most of the kids, oddly, had tons of money. It was a private school so that’s not surprising. My folks put a lot of money we could have lived on into this school.
I met my abuser in 5th grade. He molested me in 5th and 6th grades. My abuser was my best friend’s father. Like me, she didn’t have money. We bonded over sticking out, immediately.
I used to stay at her house for a week at a shot. We loved each other and I was allowed to do things at her house that I wasn’t allowed to do at mine. She had a television. My dad often got rid of ours. I was groomed perfectly by her father because he knew who my father was, too.
What values had been instilled in you as a child that informed how you responded to the abuse… (did you think you were in the wrong? Were you afraid of this person?
I was not afraid of my abuser. Eventually, I figured out that I would be molested if I went to her house. I went back because she was my only best friend. I knew what would happen, eventually. We can unpack that another day!
The values I learned from my mother were: Don’t bite your nails where everyone can see. Bite your cheeks, where only you can feel it.
My mother is like the Queen of England. She was all manners, but no real voice. If it looked good enough, it was good enough.
My dad made me believe I couldn’t trust my own judgment most of the time. I’d come to him with childhood fears and he would amplify them by roping God into it and making me feel like demons were whispering lies into my ears. He made sure I knew I was never spiritually alone and often times the spirits I wasn’t alone with were bad ones.
I don’t feel like not speaking of what was occurring was my fault, as I had no frame of reference to be able to trust my mother in confidence, nor how to tell my father. If I spoke, I feared they’d be disgusted with me that I knew what masterbation was at all.
No one I was made by gave me the impression I could say what was going on, so I kept it until a boy threatened to tell my folks if I didn’t. I only told them then so he didn’t tell them he was dating me. He was 15 and I was 12.
I never advocated for myself. I could easily advocate for others by age 14.
What was it like when your family found out about the abuse?:
My father, before I was molested, asked me about my abuser. He said, “I get the impression that he is a ‘man’s man’ and I get a funny feeling about him. Has he ever done anything inappropriate?”
I will never forget it. We were standing in my parent’s bedroom by their closet with metal folding doors. I was only being groomed at that point. My abuser did the typical, “it’s our secret” gifts of horror films and curse words, but hadn’t done anything sexual yet. I said, “No.” This was true, AT THE TIME.
My dad almost immediately believed the part of the abuse I was comfortable talking about when he heard about it. (The whole story wouldn’tcome out until I was on the witness stand).
My dad, and this is difficult to type, took my molester out for coffee the next morning to hear his side of the story. He rebuts his intent, but that will never be a normal reaction from a father.
My mother sat at the kitchen table and cried that she had allowed another daughter to be molested under her watch. It was very much about her failing, not my terror. My sister asked me if I was telling the truth.
My brother, he was the one I told first and made HIM tell my parents for me as a proxy. I literally made him. He never asked me any more follow-up questions after I told him the one time.
The Monday after I told my parents, I went to my guidance counselor at school, who was a mandated reporter. I knew she was. Her brother-in-law was the police captain of the town where the charges got filed. I initiated reporting it to the police. My parents found out that night that they had to take me to the police station to file a report.
What was the process when you went to police?:
The guidance counselor arranged me going to speak to her brother-in-law. I was interviewed. My molester had previously offended, at least twice, and had a record so I was immediately believed.
I wasn’t interviewed by any police officer that worked with kids though because they never once made me feel like I was safe to say all of what happened. It felt lazy at the time, but I wanted to NOT speak about it so I didn’t offer up a ton of extra details.
I was keenly aware that I kept going back to my molester’s house and couldn’t reason with the part of me that knew I’d be molested if I went, but I still went.
Do you know if he had abused anyone else?:
This all occurred not long BEFORE Megan’s Law. I didn’t know until I went to the police he had been a serial child abuser. I met a girl he molested after he pled guilty on my charges. He never had more charges after me, but I do know he reoffended, per her.
Talk a little about the process of going through the courts:
I had to wait 18 months from the start until the plea. It felt like forever. That was all of Junior High. It’s no wonder that was my biggest period of rebellion.
I had an advocate for some of the preliminary hearings. I don’t remember much about her. The prosecutor didn’t spend a bunch of time with me. Like the police, no one said, “did he do anything else?” I was on the stand for the actual truth. It was very dramatic. Lots of tears from jurors.
For the victim’s impact statement, my parents never told me I could make one. I believe my mom told them I didn’t want to. I’ll never be certain. I would have wanted to. I never stopped speaking after that.
Looking back is there anything you think could have gone differently or better or worse?
If I had felt comfortable telling the truth, at the time, his charges would have been massively different. Perhaps that girl after me wouldn’t have been molested, too. I don’t carry the responsibility of that ache anymore, but I acknowledge the reality of that truth.
Anything else you want to share about this period of your life?
Therapy should be mandated for victims going through court hearings. Had I had ANY other version of support, even a therapist who would report back to my parents, I’d have been vastly different in my healing. I didn’t heal. I had to rebreak a thousand times and be reset.
How did you manage to end up on the TV shows?:
So, as you can imagine, I have a bit of a moderation problem. When I was self-destructive, I almost died – repeatedly. When I was 14, after all of this had settled, I became a very zealous Christian wackadoo. Keep in mind, I am still a Christian. I was just a “Go to church five days a week,” kind of Evangelical Christian.
When my parents pulled me out of Mennonite school, they pulled us all out of Mennonite church, so we went to the Evangelical one in town. I immediately latched onto the music and singing, and the tons of teenagers who didn’t seem to all suck.
At this church, my story was known. I never stopped talking after the trial. There was an amazing psych RN who went to the church. He ran a group therapy thing for teenagers who were “problematic.”(They weren’t, but I was a church kid, so I was inherently more whole than they were! Please feel the sarcasm.)
He invited church kids to the same group to support his other kids. I think he thought I was more advanced in my journey than I was. I was 15, and he asked me if I wanted to do a television talk show tour talking about the power of forgiveness.
The early 1990’s church was a big fan of, “name it and claim it.” I think I thought if I said, “I forgive my child molester” enough, I’d believe it. Anyway, this man invited me and several others to share their story. My story was one of a few that got highlighted, is all. My parents didn’t go to NYC with me, so I’m assuming they signed a release for their 15 year old kid to go on television.
Share about how you think trauma has affected you throughout your life?:
I was constantly waiting to be rescued, I think. My biggest fear was instability, so I would stay in situations well past the point of my detriment, so long as it was predictable enough.
I have been married three times. The third time I got married, I was 36 so, I failed at marriage pretty hard. In the classical sense. I know that’s not true, but on paper, it looks that way.
When I met my current husband, I think both of us thought I was more healed from a life of events even after this child molester, than I was. I always felt very comfortable sharing my pain with others, so long as it was pain I had healed from and I could be a good example for.
I could share that I HAD eating disorders because they were over. My sexually acting out could be shared, because I was no longer doing that, either.
The issue with speaking about trauma in the past tense is that I never learned how to say, “I CURRENTLY am not fairing well, but I cannot even identify exactly what’s wrong.” I only ever spoke of past pain, never current pain.
In some way, I was always dependent on the source of the current pain, so I could only ever share how much it sucked after it was over. After it was over, I’d never shut the hell up about it. haha!
Now that you know more about neurodiversity, how do you think your perception of the trauma has changed, or has it?
Now that I know I’m gloriously autistic, I feel a different battle inside of me. I see my own failings in recognizing autism in my child, but that’s because I’m autistic as hell. Of COURSE I missed a neurodiverse kiddo! I do not hold anyone accountable for my missed diagnosis, not even the parents I don’t speak to any longer. Not many girls in the 1980’s got noticed with ASD.
I wrote something last week that fits here.
“Abuse is often easy to recognize. It’s usually an overt act. Abuse is a very active verb. Neglect, however, is less obvious. Neglect, in its very nature, occurs over a period of time. The verb is significantly less active.
Neglect, taking time, is why neglect is also severe abuse. It’s a million choices made, or just as many choices refusing to be made, that are all choosing on your behalf.
Resentment, the name is Neglect.”
I’m coming to terms with the fact that neglecting an autistic kid who has been sexually abused can be quite damaging. When your folks double down on their version of history, instead of seeing how I saw history, one finds themselves beating down the wolf of resentment with a baseball bat.
Feeding the better wolf I need to live is now my mission. Whatever the opposite of resentment is, I want to do that more to feed my gratitude. I am so very grateful my voice means something again. I’m so very grateful, indeed.
Queen Buttercup Speaks 