Sexual Abuse and Why You Should Tell
Before I knew what child sexual abuse was, I knew that something terrible had happened to my friend Vicky. We met when we were 13, and she ended our friendship 35 years later.
Thanks to the more open national discussion about child sexual abuse, I figured things out for myself when we were older. I dropped a few massive hints to let her know that I was open to talking about it, but she refused.
Over the years, she changed a lot - in unusual ways. All of us changed our clothing and hairstyles, of course, but Vicky tried out different laughs and different smiles! (The first time she unnaturally bared both her upper and lower teeth at me, I thought she was going to bite me!) She gained and lost weight several times, becoming bone thin and dangerously overweight. She started and stopped and started smoking. She had plastic surgery. She changed religions three times before I lost count.
She often claimed to have found The Answer. It was the weight loss. It was the new religion. It was the lyrics of a new song.
I often asked, "The answer to what?" She had no answer for that.
Vicky was a person preoccupied with being perfect. The day she turned 16, she pulled up in front of my house in a sporty car and snappy sunglasses. She hopped out, and in a voice resembling that of Thurston Howell III's, she called my parents by their first names.
However, no matter what we did, no matter how much fun we had, afterward, a malaise invariably set in on Vicky. She always said that a situation would have been perfect, "if only..." Years later I understood that Vicky was hoping that each new experience would be the experience that would finally make her feel well. This gave her investment in life a desperate quality.
Spontaneity terrified her, and she dealt with it by acting the way she thought she was supposed to act until she could escape, or gain control of the situation. In college, when I offered her some marijuana, she took a hit and acted like a movie drunk. She did all of the silly things that drunks do in old movies. Instead of saying, "Weed does nothing for me," she acted the way she thought she was supposed to act.
At first, it was fun to be her friend. She didn't want to talk about herself, so she talked about me. I was a teen, and then a woman in my twenties, so I enjoyed the attention.
However, as I matured, I wanted to be more of a friend to her. But she wouldn't let me, because she was perfect. Vicky didn't need anything from anyone. Everything was always A-OK in Vickyworld. (When she was my frequent houseguest, she insisted on paying for every meal and every tank of gas. She even left money on the dresser before she left. I felt like a hooker!)
Well, I began to feel like James Caan in the movie "Funny Lady." Holed up for days in a small train compartment with the elegant, pristine Barbra Streisand, he finally screams, "How do you think I feel around here? I'm the only one who ever uses the can!"
I had problems, I made mistakes, but not Vicky. Well, that's not fair. Once in a while she would reveal that she had had a problem, kept it secret, read a self-help book or bought a series of tapes, and solved it. She would tell me after the fact. I encouraged her to let me into her life, but she simply would not do it.
And then there were The Secrets. Man, how I hated The Secrets.
Her habit of keeping anything a secret made me feel ridiculous. She would listen attentively to my description of a new book, and later I would find out that she had read it before I had! And her praise was so over-the-top, it humiliated me. For example, after I served her a quick grilled cheese, her endless accolades made me want to thank the Academy.
Still, it was a very good friendship. We challenged each other. She made me come out of myself to try to engage a hidden person, and I think she enjoyed being around someone as loosey-goosey as me.
But in a funny way, I was also lonely in that friendship. Vicky was missing.
Her behavior made me aware of how insidious child sexual abuse is. Vicky was disconnected from herself. She didn't trust her feelings or opinions. She didn't trust even her most natural instincts. Before she laughed at something, she checked to see who else was laughing, and how hard. When we were among new acquaintances, her shyness manifested itself in loud, compulsive talking - as if she felt that she didn't have the right to be quiet and shy. When I realized that this made her the focus of negative attention, I had a flash of intuition: Negative attention was the only attention she allowed herself to accept.
It was a very private friendship. I didn't talk about her to anyone, nor did I want to. She, of course, never said anything to anyone about anything. Ever. Those secrets, you know.
When I finally put the pieces of the puzzle together, I spoke to her lovingly. I suspected that she had been sexually abused, and said so. She confirmed it. And that was the end of the discussion. Imagine - she endured years of sexual abuse, and she didn't want to talk to her best friend about it. If she had had another, closer friend, or a therapist - or anyone with whom she was addressing the issue, I would have backed off. But she didn't have anyone like that, and the abuse was obviously still playing havoc with her life. Her physical and mental health were crumbling.
The last time I saw her, she traveled far to be my houseguest. In several long-distance phone conversations we had before that visit, she circled around the topic of her abuse. She seemed tempted to talk about it, to finally hash it out a bit with a trustworthy friend of 35 years. I assured her that I didn't expect her to be clear and declarative. I understood that it had been, and still was, confusing. I assured her that she could be confused, and even (gasp) imperfect with me. We would talk and cry and laugh and eat and take long walks, and do what friends do.
When she arrived at my house, she was in a vicious mood. She tore me to shreds. She hated my husband, my clothes, my looks, everything. Going for the jugular, she said, "Your mother is looking at your life and spinning in her grave."
Something was terribly wrong.
Then I saw something strange.
I saw Vicky reach down to pet my relaxed, easy-going cat, Frankie. Now, in most homes with cats, visitors either pet the animal and make friends, or ignore the cat, who then goes away for a nap. End of story.
I knew that Vicky was not an animal lover, so I expected the latter scenario to take place. However, in a robotic voice, and with a stiff hand, Vicky clumsily petted the cat and said, "Good Frankie. Nice Frankie. Nice kitty cat."
I watched her and thought, Good Lord. This woman can't even react naturally to a cat. She can't react to a cat, she can't react to me, she can't even react to herself. She seems to be acting the role of a human being.
Vicky obviously wanted out of our friendship, because I wanted more. I wanted to love her, in all of her flawed glory.
But she didn't want that. The prospect was so threatening, she needed to end the friendship - but she didn't want to take responsibility for doing so. That would make her imperfect.
She tried to make me angry enough to do it for her.
So I did it for her, but in a nice way. I took her lead and pretended that I didn't notice all of the insults. When she left, I never contacted her again.
Child sexual abuse teaches children to keep the biggest secret of all.
They learn to become secrets to themselves.