Irina had run away from home (I didn't address why in the story, again, I was 10) and lived in a mass of kudzu in a forest. For those of you not from my neck of the woods, this is kudzu:
It takes over everything, and chokes other trees to death, so it's basically a predator plant, but I always loved it. I thought it was beautiful, and I never understood (at the time) why people would try to kill it. It always made me sad. I guess it still does. I would be totally ok living in a kudzu covered house. But I digress.
So anyway, Irina. She missed her mother terribly, but she couldn't go back home. So she lived in the kudzu, and had these little magical fairy/gnome like friends that would help her find food and kept her company. I didn't develop the story to the conflict/resolution part (did I mention the 10 years old thing?) so that's basically where it ended. But I had that fantasy. I loved the idea of running away and living in the forest with fairy and gnome type creatures in my forest. In fact, I was horrified when I saw "The Labyrinth" and discovered that the fairies bit. My fairies didn't bite. Basically Irina lived with TinkerBell and David the Gnome. They were the good guys.
I fantasized about running away all the time. For those of you who have read the other blogs preceding this one, or have talked to me about my childhood, this may not come as a surprise to you. But it did to me, in fact when Irina of the Kudzu popped back into my head the other day, I literally went "Ooooh, I get it now." There were many times I could have run away, could have stayed with friends, could have told someone, ANYONE what was going on in my house. But I didn't. Because Irina always missed her mother. I loved my mother (I still do but the past tense is to put emphasis on the feeling back then), I think more so than most people love their mothers, because I saw her as my protector, my guardian angel. She was the one who stood between my brother and me during his rages, she got knives thrown at her by him when I let one of my friends drink his soda (yep). She talked to the cops when they showed up. I remember sitting by our fireplace (that didn't work) and staring up the officer, wanting to tell her, but being afraid that I would have to miss my mother.
Years later, in the throes of my anger towards my parents, I wished I had stood up and screamed at the officer that my brother was crazy, to take him away, he was hurting me, and fuck all else that came afterwards. I didn't care. I wanted it to be bad, to hurt, to bleed, I wanted my parents to feel the pain I was feeling. I didn't understand why they hadn't gotten him away from me after he abused me, why he hadn't been sent to live with my father, my grandparents, a boarding school, anything. A part of me never will, because of my experience, I'm sure. I know there's not a rule book, but I can't imagine letting an abuser stay in the house with my child. It has been explained to me numerous times. I know the reasons, but there's still a part of me that goes "Wait a minute."
As I got older and learned how the child welfare system worked (read: when I started working for it) I used to fantasize about what would have happened if I had told, if I had run away and become one of the children I was treating (read: eternally jacked up, that's a clinical term, I promise). Or telling my teachers when I was a kid, I wanted so badly to tell someone and no one at the same time, because I was so ashamed, but the little part of me that wanted justice wanted out. I don't know why I fantasized about this, because as DCFS agencies go, from state to state, they all pretty much suck the soul out of most of the children they service. A very select few make it out intact. Those are the lucky ones. I don't know if I would have been one of them. I may have ended up in a bad place.
I am conscious enough of my accomplishments to know that I have come a very long way. An arduous way. And I am who I am because of what happened to me. I don?t say that as a way of ceding control to my attacker. I say that as acceptance, as the epitome of order from chaos. I am good today, because of the bad. Not that I am always good, I am often times not even close to whatever society deems "good." I can sometimes be, dare I say it, "inappropriate" (ominous music). I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that I surround myself with the same, my friends, who have become my family, and just like my family, are not perfect and cannot be anything but themselves. Like me.
And I used to think there was no one like me, in the worst way. I was alone with my abuse, I didn't know it happened to other people. Now I know it happens so often that when friends confess to me that they are a survivor of sexual trauma, especially childhood sexual trauma, I nod, I listen, I let them know they are not alone, but I am never surprised. In fact, you probably are one of us or you're standing next to/talking to/working with/dating/friends with/related to one of us. Telling is the ultimate task we have. And I don't mean telling like wielding it as a weapon, as though you had a harder time of it than other people. You may have, but you probably had a better time of it than some others. I try not to compare experiences with anyone. Everyone experiences things differently. But I do say that we are common, and to destroy the shame and put the responsibility on the perpetrator solely, the story has to be told. Dark secrets are only dark if they're left there. Out of the darkness, they don't have the same weight.
I still think about Irina, and I wonder what would have happened had I run away, had a yelled for the help I needed. Who knows, maybe I'd be a doctor by now. But maybe I'd be a drug addict. We fall all along the spectrum. On my good days, I'm mostly glad I stayed, but, I still sometimes wish to have had the strength as an 8 year old to perform the Herculean task of telling on your family. It's something I'll have to work out. I think in a lot of ways I have become Irina, I live far away from what used to be home, and I miss my mother, but instead of being forced to live in the kudzu, in hiding, I have chosen to take refuge in the light.
Now I just need some non-biting fairies.
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