 On My Own Terms, A Memoir chronicles ten months of gruelling sessions with my psychiatrist, Dr. Stein. It is a graphic account of the long-lasting effects child abuse had on me and many facets of my life.I knew I needed therapy, but I was terrified of being labelled crazy, crazy like my mother was. But as our sessions progressed, Dr. Stein helped me reveal the memories that led to a teen suicide attempt, a planned teenage pregnancy and subsequent abortion, promiscuity, a stint in detention, morbid obesity, compulsive eating disorders, a voluntary tubal-ligation when I was twenty-one years old, and permanent estrangement from my malicious, controlling mother. Twelve years after therapy, I learned my estranged mother had terminal bone cancer. A sense of familial duty compelled me to let my mother back into my life, but my mother's past deceit and outright lies make it too late for open, loving arms. I set my terms and relationship limits. Then, when three of my four siblings and I rallied around our dying mother, religious differences and petty unresolved childhood conflicts threaten any hope there was of reconciliation with the rest of my alienated family. I came to realize that I wasn't the only one with terms.
Read on for an excerpt of my child abuse story . . .
From Chapter 18 - Desolation:
A HOLSTER IS what I saw first. There was a gun under the snap of that holster. The only reason I didn't lunge for it was fear of a ricochet toward my brothers and sisters. "I don't have time to stay here," my dad huffed at the two mediating police officers standing in our kitchen. "I have to open my bowling alley. That's what I do for a living, you know. Just take her. Maybe a night in jail will straighten her out." "This is your daughter, sir," the older constable said. "I suggest you find someone else to open your bowling alley, and find some time for her. She needs her family right now, not jail." "Del, I'll phone Ray," my mother offered. Ray Dupont, the twenty-three-year-old bowler wannabe my dad had hired as a part-timer. "I'm sure he'll open the lanes for us."Her concern for me would have been touching if it hadn't been pure bullshit. She was a master of deception when others were around. "And have him see the cops here?" my dad replied. "It's bad enough that our neighbors already know." The younger officer put an arm around my shoulder. "Why don't we go talk in the squad car?" he said. "You're not tricking me into going to the hospital," I told him, clinging to the seat of my chair. "We'll just talk, that's all," he promised. Voices from the car radio crackled in the background. The officer turned the volume down, then reached into the glove compartment. He handed me a mini-packet of Kleenex. "How many aspirin have you taken, Darlene?" I sniffled and wiped at my nose with the tissue. "A hundred fifty, maybe more since yesterday. But call me Dar. Please call me Dar." "All right, Dar. Are things that bad at home for you?" He had such a pleasant, trusting face and voice. And if I didn't talk to someone, I was going to bust at the chest. I told him everything. "I'm so sorry, Dar," he said. "But I don't think you really want to die. Please. Let me take you to the hospital." "No!" "What if I promise to inform Social Services of your family situation?" "They don't give a damn. They told me there were no foster parents willing to take someone my age. How's that for caring?" I wiped again at my dripping nose. "They shouldn't have let you down like that. What if I tell you I'll keep checking up on you to make sure you're doing all right? Will you agree to go to the hospital then?"
ANOTHER EMERGENCY VISIT, only this time it wasn't for getting my head pounded in. This time there was question after question about my intent. A dispassionate doctor ordered syrup of ipecac with a large pitcher of water to chug. "Roll her into that room over there so she doesn't make the real sick ones any sicker," he told the nurse.
Guess he'd had his fill of people like me. After purging, after my stomach felt like it was in my throat, I closed my eyes for just a second. When I opened them, a priest I'd never seen before was standing over me, reading aloud from The New Testament. "What are you doing here!" I cried out. "I don't need you. Where were you when I did?" He took my hand, but I recoiled it in disgust. "The Lord is with you," he said, closing his Bible. "And the life He's given you is sacred. It should never be taken for granted." Suddenly, a sharp, nauseating pain at my stomach. "Ohhh, boy." I leaned over the rail of the gurney, and upchucked all over his perfectly-pressed pants and spit-polished black brogues.
I SNICKERED. "IT wasn't much of a suicide attempt, Dr. Stein, that's for sure."
"Do you have any idea how many teenagers end up at the morgue after they've threatened to take their own lives?" he said so sharply it made me throw my shoulders back and sit up pole straight. "You would have died if you hadn't gone to the hospital." "I doubt that," I said with a flick of my wrist. "If all those aspirins hadn't killed me by then, they never would have. They made me nauseous and burned into my gut. Left my teeth sore as hell. Too much acid, I guess. Though I am surprised they didn't make me sicker." "Some people have more tolerance than others. But I can assure you, a hundred fifty aspirin will kill a human being. And you weren't about to stop. Face facts, Dar. If not that night, you would have died the next." He was right. I wouldn't have stopped. I'd always told myself that it was a simple cry for attention, that I hadn't been insane, after all. Now I had to accept the truth.
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| Page last revised April 7, 2008 |
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