Specifically, in this memoir I illuminate a problem that is seldom addressed: how and why some victims of child abuse act out against society or become abusive toward others, while others become self-abusive or perpetual victims. As they experience my life through my eyes, readers will be able to observe how the drip, drip, drip of abuse, neglect, and constant shaming wore away at my humanity, gradually causing me to become numb, stop having empathy for others, and think only of my own needs. The insights I offer here will be beneficial to those who went down a similar path, as well as those trying to understand a loved one who took the path of acting out sexually, becoming a criminal, or becoming abusive toward others as a result of childhood trauma.
The overarching issue addressed in the book is shame—how it is created, the damage it does to one’s self-concept and self-esteem. After being neglected and emotionally abused by my mother, branded a liar and a troublemaker, and then sexually abused and raped, I found myself riddled with shame and a basic belief that I was bad, unlovable, and rotten inside. The only way I knew how to survive in the world was to build up a defensive wall to keep myself from being further shamed. In order to stop other kids from bullying me I created a false bravado and acted like I didn’t care what they thought. After being sexually abused and raped, I turned my shame into rage and began acting out— against my mother and against society in general.
Instead of becoming a perpetual victim, as many people do with a history such as mine, I did what is called “identifying with the aggressor,” meaning that I denied my victimizations by blaming myself, making excuses for my abusers, and taking on those abusers’ personalities and tendencies. I reenacted my sexual abuse with other children in my neighborhood and almost molested a six-month-old baby I was babysitting. Although I didn’t act on this dark impulse, this was my lowest point. I came to believe that I was as bad as the man who had molested me— that I was the lowest of the low.
After being raped at twelve years old, I began to shoplift. I was angry at my mother. I was angry at all the men who had abused me and at all authority figures. I wanted to lash out—to get back at everyone who had taken advantage of me. After I was finally caught and brought home in a cop car, my mother gave up on me. She wanted nothing more to do with me.
Fortunately, I didn’t give up on myself. I knew there was goodness in me and I struggled to find it, to return to that compassionate child I had once been. I determined to turn my life around, even though I had no guidance from anyone, including my mother. Through solitude and introspection I began to find pieces of myself I had discarded in my attempts to shield myself from further harm.
Even though I often felt like giving up, there was something inside me that kept pushing me forward. I knew there was more to life than the hellhole I found myself in and that there were better people to be found in the world than the degenerate ones I found myself surrounded by. And I knew I needed to keep myself together long enough to escape. I wasn’t going to let that town or its people get me down.
I learned many lessons along the way, and I share them openly with my readers. I hope these “takeaways” will help those of you who have struggled as I did to recover from the debilitating shame that comes with childhood neglect and abuse.
part one
looking for mother
“You don’t know what it’s like to grow up with a mother who never said a positive thing in her life, not about her children or the world, who was always suspicious, always tearing you down and splitting your dreams straight down the seams.”
—Junot Diaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
chapter 1
When I was three and a half years old, I went looking for my mother. I’d been waiting for her in the babysitter’s backyard, along with about five other kids. I looked up each time the back door opened, as one by one parents came to fetch their children. But she didn’t come.
As time went by, I became more and more anxious. The sun was beginning to set and the afternoon shadows were growing larger and more ominous. Soon I was the last child left playing in the yard. Still my mother didn’t come and didn’t come.
Finally, I decided to ride my tricycle home. I opened the back gate, let myself out, and headed home. I knew it wasn’t too far, and I also knew my way. I had to cross a highway and some railroad tracks to get there, but I was determined.
When I reached the highway, I looked both ways like my mother had taught me and patiently waited for the cars to pass. Then I rode as fast as my legs could pedal to the other side of the highway. Feeling triumphant, I continued on my path.
A few blocks farther on I reached the railroad tracks. I had to push and tug my tricycle over each track, struggling so hard that I fell down several times on the gravel that lined the tracks. But nothing was going to stop me from getting home to my mother.
When I finally
