The Destructive Dance

Does anybody remember “Hell Is For Children” by Pat Benatar? The line that always gets me is where the child is being told to lie. All the creative lies abusers use to entrap the child, and it causes them to believe the greatest fault of all: you are the one who is bad, and you are the one who did the wrong or bad thing.

No, the child is an innocent.

Lies spin off into secrets, and many times those who abuse are let off because the child firmly believes the lies they are told and are commanded to tell. It is this hell that brings adults to my Zoom-based office.

When I tell someone seeking treatment that the cycle can be broken, there are times when I’m not believed, and with good reason: they’ve been lied to so much that what I say is perceived as just another person spinning a tall tale.

The sad part of all of the above is that the abusers involve the innocent “other” in the process. The parent, grandparent, sibling, or another is unknowingly manipulated to become part of a destructive dance. This dance serves the perpetrator, and no one else. In a child’s mind they, too, become part of the hellish secret they are commanded to keep.

While kids are becoming more aware of abuse issues and other psychological issues such as suicide, it doesn’t mean that they will talk about it. They may talk about it with a friend, and the friend might have the wisdom to get to adult help.

It isn’t always that way.

When, in my twenties, I finally shared what had happened to me, my father asked why I didn’t speak up as a child. “Daddy, do you remember a conversation you had with_________? Do you remember that he spoke up before I could say anything to you?” My father began to cry. Yes, he remembered. I was never given a chance to tell, because in the 1960s things like abuse didn’t happen, and if they did, they weren’t spoken of. The pervert knew this, and knowing the dynamics of marking one’s targets for repeat offense is an art. It damaged my parental relationship. The perp got just what he wanted: me, and countless others.

Ironically, my saving grace was that before I was eight, my parents had a group talk with me and my older siblings about healthy touching. So, when the abuse happened, deep inside I knew I wasn’t at fault.

Still, it was a secret, and I couldn’t tell because I’d been set up to not be believed. Part of the setup was the patriarchy dynamic of the Mormon Church.

This leads me back to secrets.

Mormonism, and Mormon homes, hold many secrets.

Church secrets range from “don’t say anything about your new church assignment” to confidential matters. The issue with this is, what, really, is confidential? This leaks into the home, where you aren’t supposed to talk about your new assignment or “calling,” and bleeds off into the unhealthy dynamic of family secrets, such as someone’s pregnancy or mental illness.

No matter what religion or non-religion a family participates in, secrets are a sign of dysfunction in a home. Should there be boundaries? Yes. Should we respect a family member who asks that their privacy be respected? Yes. There is a big difference between the command not to tell anyone, and the person asking someone to respect another’s privacy and to keep things confidential. At the same time, confidentiality is not about holding back information that places another person in physical or mental danger. When a child discovers that Santa and the Easter Bunny and the tooth fairy are Mom and Dad, a healthy parenting style will bring the child into the “let your brothers and sisters discover this for themselves” place. Children are able to understand that type of knowing vs. being told not to tell. This positive regard for healthy behavior also enables the child to grasp what is safe to hold inside, and what needs to be told.

Having said all of this, what’s a kid to do? Most children in a situation where abuse and secrets are involved hold it all in and arrive at the therapist office not able to trust or believe in much.

When I saw children in my practice, I could work with them in the places they were. I‘ve found that most kids get to adulthood and need to do more work in an adult way.

What about the kid that can’t bring friends home? They know their home is different from their friends’. Once again, it’s the secret that the child is keeping to themself. Not because they’ve been told to bury it, but because of shame or fear: “What if my mother or father’s awfulness is discovered?” Young children learn to hide what isn’t good.

In the past two decades, research from the National Institute on Drug Abuse is also showing a decline in the use of drugs (alcohol is a drug) by younger adults. Maybe younger adults are cluing in to the damage done by the past behavior of their parents. My observation is that they want something better for themselves and their children. Maybe older sober adults want that same better thing for their children and grandchildren.

Is there hope that the cycle of secrets can be broken? It is all about speaking up, and then doing the healing because of the damage that has been done. Abuse, to secrets, to a dance of destruction will end when the victims give voice to it.

Reflections, Part 6

Read Part 5 here.

The Dissection

Giving that outfit I wore on the day of Jon’s death a send-off was hard, and it opened the door to other life changes. Like the outfit, I gave other changes time and sat with each one over a period of time. The first major life change was my exit from the Mormon Church. It had been brewing for years, and when I finally did leave, I left peacefully. No regrets or looking back: only looking forward now.

The spiritual direction program I became involved in was about my soul journey and being led to a new place in my life. That happened four years after I became a widow and took a full two years to complete. It opened up a new way of framing spirituality in my life. It taught me that “fixing” a perceived wrong in someone is not the only path to healing. Therapists fix; spiritual directors don’t, and whatever needs healing happens. Sometimes the healing comes from within, and spiritual direction facilitates changes in its own powerful way. Prior to 2016, I had not been aware of what power “direction” could hold. I had to be out from my former church for that to happen.

Covid-19 taught me about staying safe and challenged me to accept my own vulnerability. While we as a world sat isolated in our homes, we each came to grips in our own way that this thing could kill us. When I was told by a doctor to not risk going out, I listened, and that choice was a no-brainer for me. It also made me realize that this was one thing I was glad that Jon wasn’t around for. He’d have been unreasonably scared. Part of his bipolar pathology revolved around outside threats. We were all scared of something we couldn’t see, and watching friends and family get sick and die was hard. Knowing it could kill us was worse in many ways. And so, in 2023, when the doctors told me to not travel anywhere where I couldn’t get to a hospital fast, I listened, and I cancelled a planned trip. Four years into the process (2020), I listened because I was learning to make choices that kept me safe. This would serve me well when, in 2023, I listened to a friend, and then to myself. It saved my life—twice.

Walking this new path enabled me to admit to myself that it was time to do the personal therapy I needed to take on. I needed to stop stuffing it in and jettisoning the entire trauma. My captive iceberg needed to be freed.

Looking back on all of it now, I see the chain of events that led up to where I am now.

The freedom of exploring my life after I left Mormondom also allowed me to look at who I am as a woman. As women in the Mormon Church, we have a narrow field of options: sister, daughter, wife, and mother. Being raised in the 1960s and 1970s, the options in adult life were wife and mother.

I knew early on that marriage was not in the plans for me. I understood that I needed to follow a professional path. The problem in the Mormon Church is that you are taught from an early age to trust fifteen old white men. You are at their mercy, and if they are super conservative in their thinking, your options get quelled. In the 1960s and 1970s, women started finding jobs out of the home, and the war within raged as it did with me in the 2000s when I was married. With a prophet in the 1970s telling women to stay home, and a prophet in the 1980s telling women to leave jobs and to go back into the home, women were pulled and torn between what was best for them on a personal level and what church leadership was saying they should do.

I made the choice while in the Mormon Church to pursue my professional goals, and to work as a therapist. This was a personal choice, and one that only I could make. Like other women of my generation, I made the choice that would enable me to pursue the goal I’d set at sixteen: becoming a therapist.

When I married in 1998, the war waged on in my mind. Wife vs. wanting and needing to do what I loved doing: working in my profession. The good Mormon wife stayed home. We didn’t have children, and we’d never have children. I was torn between guilt and what I knew my personal truth to be. Whether it was volunteer work in the early 2000s, or paid work later on, I chose to work.

Once I left the Mormon Church, it all opened up! I didn’t have to play a role. I could enter into life not having to ask if I should walk a path that would allow me to be seen as Gail the woman, and not the wife, the woman who was not a mother, the woman who loves her profession, the woman who is even free to explore her sexuality—no matter who she is. This was just as liberating as the day in September of 2016 when I walked into the hair salon and announced that I wanted to go grey. Oh my, the women celebrated my newfound freedom from the bottle. That journey took six months and has been something I’ve enjoyed. Yes, Jon, I will never bottle my hair again.

And so, like the grey hair, I settled in to enjoying the real Gail.

I stand in my petiteness, and I claim myself as I am. I understand that who I am is mine alone to claim. I honor the process of releasing the trauma of my life—all of it had to go. I sit here and recall the mail I got right before the therapy session. My therapist sent it to me. It was the story of an iceberg. I crushed on the iceberg. “She” gave me courage. With her in my thoughts and at my side, I tore into the trauma, and I set it free. I owe my happy iceberg a huge thank you. I owe myself a thank you. Where will this journey head to next?