Child Abuse Reporting

Long into adulthood, I often wondered why my childhood family therapist did not protect my brothers and me by reporting our physical abuse. Was she afraid? Did she have a prior bad experience with CPS? Maybe she thought she could help us better than the authorities could. Or maybe she was not adequately trained. Was she in denial, or did her loyalties lie with the individual paying her wages? Whatever the reason for her inaction, this therapist, who in session had listened to my stepfathers’ admission of severely beating us kids, advised me calmly to “just stay out of my abusers’ way.” This therapeutic response left me unprotected and feeling responsible for my own abuse.

Although child abuse reporting is mandatory, professionals don’t always report abuse. In order for states to qualify for funding under the Child Abuse Prevention and Treatment Act (CAPTA), 48 states have passed some form of a mandatory child abuse and neglect reporting law. Each state requires certain professionals and institutions to report suspected child abuse and some states require “any person” to report suspected abuse.

According to the Washington State Legislature, the state of Washington (where I am from) enacted RCW 26.44, commonly referred to as the Child Abuse and Neglect Reporting Act in 1965 – three years before the onset of my physical abuse.

Although reporting abuse is mandatory for most professionals, many individuals fear repercussions. Aside from the fear of termination, many professionals report fears of personal threats, grievances, lawsuits and loss of business.

According to P.A.N.D.A. (Prevent Abuse and Neglect through Dental Awareness), dentists are in the best possible circumstances to recognize cases of child abuse, because approximately 50 to 75 percent of abused children sustain injuries to the head and neck. Yet, dentists make less than 1% of all child abuse reports, citing fear of repercussions and lack of training concerning how to recognize child abuse.

Although the number of pediatricians who report abuse is much higher than for dentists, results from American Academy of Pediatrics surveys indicate that pediatricians still require additional training and resources regarding intentional injury management. Survey results from 1998 and 2003 specify that “the proportion of pediatricians who expressed confidence in ability to identify child abuse decreased (65% vs. 60%).”

Those pediatricians who do recognize and report abuse may deal with a variety of consequences.

Many ordinary citizens are afraid of reporting child abuse because of the possible repercussions to the child or to themselves. Children are often afraid to report the abuse out of their fear of punishment, loss of love or fear of destroying the family.

The consequences for the professional or other bystander who reports abuse can range anywhere from mild discomfort or inconvenience to life changing retaliation.

However, when the bystander fails to protect a child, the victim is often left alone to face a horrific childhood and a lifetime of recovery.

Silence diminishes the soul. Silence aids the chronic pattern of abuse.

Truth telling gives way to healing, breaking the cycle and moving forward to a deserving life.

Nobody reported my childhood abuse, not my family therapist, not my doctor, my teachers, my family, friends or neighbors. So many knew, but nobody helped.

If you know a victim or a survivor, please stand by that individual and publicly speak the truth. Nobody can stand alone; the silence is crushing.

Reading My 1992 Journal

At the end of March, I thought it would be interesting to write some posts from the “that was then, this is now” perspective. I decided that when I posted a topic from my current viewpoint, I would choose a passage from my 1992 journals that represented my state of mind on the same topic then.

I only made it through one “that was then, this is now” post before I realized how much I dreaded picking up my old journals.

After that, prior to reading my journals, I had to ask myself, “Right now, do I have the emotional energy necessary to read these?”

I have found that reading the details of raw, soul-crushing events - as they happened - evokes in me a consuming sense of self-compassion.

The journals detail all sorts of harrowing events that had been partially purged through written word. My range of feelings at that point in my life was very limited. When I was injured, my emotions swung like a pendulum – either all the way to the right and numb - or all the way to the left with unmanageable anxiety and agitation. Other emotions – such as sadness were beyond my scope of experience.

Over the years, I have learned to stay present with a wide array of emotions. Today, I fully feel the sadness when I read those journals and grieve deeply for that old part of me and what she endured.

Each time I scan my words looking for passages pertinent to a current post, I find myself absorbed in old stories that I’d forgotten about. Sometimes, I read in disbelief.

Nonetheless, it isn’t the stories that are important here; it’s the process that is significant.

During the time I wrote the journals my therapist told me that I needed to get angry and mourn. I couldn’t. I had no frame of reference. Instructing me to feel powerful emotions was not enough.

I didn’t learn to process my feelings as a child. When a child is terrified, their pain can easily spin out of control. A caring parent teaches the child to modulate their pain by comforting them with love and assurance. In the safety of loving arms, a child learns to reign in their emotions. Through example, this mechanism becomes internalized in the child and they eventually learn to soothe themselves. Emotional self-soothing is a quality I lacked as a child and needed to learn to internalize for myself.

Years later, another therapist understood that I literally needed to be taught the same way a child is taught. She explained how to seek out people to receive empathic responses until I could internalize them for myself.

At first, self-compassion was forced and awkward; something I had to create space for in order to honor my feelings.

Today, self-compassion is an automatic response. I don’t experience the old feelings of anxiety and fear. Nor do I feel re-injured as I have in the past. For so long, recalling stories of past abuse continued to abuse me. The experience still felt present. Yet, the gift of authentically grieving is that my memory of the abuse no longer abuses me. Instead, I simply feel a great deal of self-compassion for the me of long ago.

I need to respect my energy level enough to ask myself, “At this moment, do I have the reserves to mourn?” If I don’t, I should save my journals for another day, but when I do, as I peel away each layer of pain, I become increasingly stronger.

Mother's Day and Estrangement

Holidays are difficult for those contending with losses (See Holiday Stress)– especially those holidays that celebrate the person at the center of our loss. The symbolism of Mother’s Day can be particularly difficult for estranged mothers and daughters.

During my twenties, I shrouded myself in denial. I tried to “buy” my mother’s love by providing her a day of false praise and tribute. In the years leading up to our estrangement, I often anticipated Mother’s Day with anger or dread. I searched the rows of Hallmark Cards trying unsuccessfully to find an authentic and respectful card that said something other than “For the best Mom ever.”

During the beginning of our estrangement, I often faced Mother’s Day with ambivalence - joyful about my role as a mother and sad about my painful losses with respect to my own mom.

The holidays do get better with time. After a few years of allowing myself the space to mourn my loss, I filled my Mother’s Days by honoring my own internal mother; by sharing a joy filled day with my daughters; by honoring the women who have made a positive difference in my life, and by advocating for other motherless daughters.

In that vein, make the space to mourn your loss and to celebrate the mother in you, who nurtures herself and/or her own children: Happy Mother's Day!

Forgiveness Poll

Back in March I started a 60 day poll on forgiveness. Thank you to all who participated! I love receiving your feedback.

My own feelings about forgiveness continually change:

· At one point, I wanted to forgive, but I didn’t know how.

· Then I took a stab at “forced” forgiveness – and got hurt again!

· For many years after that, I was very angry about the pressure I felt from others to forgive, because I knew that forgiveness wasn’t healthy for me at that point.

· I was so hurt, that I was sure that I would never forgive.

· Then, I decided I wouldn’t forgive unless certain conditions were met.

· After years of healing, safety (and estrangement), I was surprised to find myself “feeling” forgiving.

· I came to believe that forgiveness was a journey that may - or may not have a final destination - after adequate healing has taken place.

· Eventually, my mother called me (after 14 years of estrangement), and apologized for my abuse – this afforded me a new level of forgiveness otherwise not available without her participation.

I’ve learned to respect each necessary part of my process and the varying viewpoints I have had along the way – and to support other individual’s experiences with forgiveness and/or not forgiving. During the span of the last thirty years – given where I was on my recovery at the time - I could have voted for seven out of the eleven choices here.

I decided to continue the poll indefinitely with my continued thanks to all who participate. Your views are most welcome! Thank You!

To date, these are the results:

Poll: How much has forgiveness played a role in your recovery from abuse:

 ·        None – I don’t think about forgiveness at all.                                 1 – 3%

·        Somewhat – Plays a small roll in my process.                                2 – 7%

·        Somewhat - I don’t want to forgive and I’m okay with that.    1 – 3%

·        Somewhat – Forgiveness is a journey and I’m comfortable     9 – 34%
                             with my pace. 

·        Quite a bit – I’d like to forgive, but I am unable.                               1 – 3%

·        Quite a bit – I won’t forgive unless some conditions are met. 2 – 7%

·        Quite a bit – I have forgiven.                                                                            3 – 11%

·        Huge - I’ll never forgive.                                                                                      1 – 3%

·        Huge – Makes me angry. I feel damaged by pressure from      4 – 15%
                others to forgive.

·        Huge – My abuser acknowledged my injuries, asked for           1 – 3%
                forgiveness and I have forgiven.               

·        None of the above.                                                                                                      1 – 3%

Grandparents

During my growing up years, Grandma had a positive impact on my life. She gave me what all children need – she gave of herself. Quite simply, she spent time with me. Grandma stated her affection with walks on the beach and her almost eccentric, yet loveable curiosity with nature. She spent time with my brothers and me, playing cards, cooking us elaborate meals and spoiling us with treats. Grandma shared her joy of crafts and cared for us when we were ill. I treasure fond memories of my grandmother.

Yet, she refused to believe that we were abused. When the family fell apart, she became enraged with me and cut me out of her life for good. I was stunned! How could a loving grandmother reject her grandchild?

The estrangement from my grandmother left me in an awkward place with my grandfather. Grandpa suffered from dementia and Grandma was his caretaker. The day Grandma cut me out of her life, Grandpa pleaded with her to stop what she was doing.

Six years into the estrangement from my Grandmother, my Mother, and my three siblings, my Grandma died. My love and longing for her were central to me long before she died. Yet I didn’t go to the funeral. I mourned her loss and a segment of my history alone. The soul-crushing isolation caused by not attending her service left me devastated; however, I simply did not feel safe enough to be there.

When Grandma died, Grandpa was moved into a care facility. This move afforded me the opportunity to see Grandpa again each Sunday:

Grandpa was eighty-eight years old when Grandma died. The simultaneous loss of his wife and his home must have been extremely difficult for my grandfather. However, Grandpa handled his transition with enviable grace. He tempered heartfelt expressions of love and loss with positive hope for his future. I am still in awe of his constant optimistic approach to each situation without displaying a hint of displeasure.

Although I cherish many wonderful childhood memories of my grandfather – reflections of teaching me cribbage, domino's, or just talking as we walked on the beach – my most heartfelt memories are those of teaching me life’s gentle lessons.

When I was a child, Grandma, Grandpa, and his then seventy-five year old sister took my brothers and me to the Suspension Bridge in Canada. Aunt Jessie was a little unsteady as we approached the lengthy span. Grandpa took her purse in one hand and then gently slipped his other arm through hers. He very patiently and lovingly escorted his older sister across the long wobbly bridge. In the decades to come, I watched Grandpa in many such circumstances – always the gentleman, always compassionate. However, this particular memory stands out for me, because, as I waited in the distance and watched them make this long journey together, I made my first conscience realization of what sort of man my grandfather really was.

Even at ninety and suffering from severe dementia, Grandpa never lost his sense of humor. Once before Grandpa and I left a gathering at my aunt’s house, she took Grandpa by the hand to help him use the facilities. When a visiting child asked where my aunt was taking him, the room fell in awkward silence. Grandpa saved the moment with his mischievous reply, “Well, she’s taking me out back for a whoopin of course!”

I treasure the time I had with Grandpa, even as I struggled with the discomfort of watching as his life slowly slipped away. Although he reached the point that he could no longer carry on a conversation, or remember anything past the present, I was blessed with the opportunity to return the love he shared throughout a lifetime. We went on long drives, simple outings, played checkers, or to a restaurant to eat. Most often, we stayed in his room and watched TV. Even though he didn’t remember who I was – he knew he was loved. Grandpa enriched my life with a wink and a smile, with a big gripping hug, and the words in earnest, “I love you!” He provided the little connections that make life meaningful.

For more than a half-century, Grandpa occupied “his chair” – to read, to watch TV, and to watch over his family. Each week, I sat on the floor at Grandpas feet to cut and arrange new flowers for his room. I looked up at my Grandfather, and watched him – watch over me – just as he had since I was little a little girl, and I was grateful for each day I was still his granddaughter.

A Good Childhood Memory

I am grateful for the few short years that I had with my father. He gave me, and modeled for me, nine years of unconditional love.

So, in that vein – in honor of my beloved father, who died 41 years ago today, I thought I’d deviate from the norm here and share a good childhood memory:

My family lived in a wonderful Seattle neighborhood; yet, as a small child, I learned many of life’s quiet lessons at our country cabin on Lake Roesiger. We learned to swim, water ski, explored the woods, and romped through countless carefree days at the lake.

My parents invited many of our Seattle neighbors to the cabin one weekend. Although most of my friends had already learned how to swim, I still preferred the security of my life belt. Prior to our company’s arrival, my father stood in waist deep water coaxing me to swim to him. He maintained that at six years old, I was a strong and capable swimmer even without my life belt. After careful consideration, I refused my fathers request. Dad eventually relented and I went about my play, life belt in place.

It was hydroplane season in the Pacific Northwest. Up at Lake Roesiger that weekend, six-year-old Bud and I hopped into our docked pleasure boat, donning our race boat driver persona's. We imitated the loud thunder of the hydroplane engines as we steered our way through the treacherous make-believe course. Our imaginations ran wild as we crashed violently, bailed out, and swam to shore. It was a blast! We raced and crashed over and over until our mother’s insisted that we break for lunch.

After our hasty meal, we dashed back to our game. Raw excitement coursed through every limb in my body as I sprinted to the boat – forgetting my life belt. Dad sat on the shoreline and proudly watched me swim each victory lap. I was puzzled by the obvious delight he conveyed with his eyes and with his smile. Finally, after watching me complete many laps, he held up my life belt. Grabbing my mid-section, I gasped in horror and surprise. The source of my father’s pride touched me with overwhelming excitement. I can swim! I smiled back at my dad – silently sharing the joy of the moment and I continued with my game.

1992 – Entry Six – Listening to My Heart

In 1992, I shunned the conventional “how to” wisdom and followed the path that worked for me. I weighed my therapist’s words against the conflicting advice I’d heard from everyone else. I listened to my heart; let self-preservation be my guide, and my journey to wholeness began:

From 1992:

Today I told Thomas, “I’m so very angry at my mother! Everyone tells me that I should forgive her. But how can I forgive someone who has never asked to be forgiven; somebody who’s never even acknowledged any wrongdoing, someone who continues to do the same thing?"

Thomas said, “Well, psychology for years used to counsel to forgive. But we are beginning to recognize that it isn’t always possible or even healthy to do that. I believe that sometimes it is important not to forgive, and to hang onto a healthy sort of rage at what happened, in order to protect yourself from being hurt again."

I felt indescribable relief; a feeling of peace came over me. There was a potent healing power in Thomas’s words. I felt an overwhelming sense of freedom. Freedom from spending every ounce of my energy trying to suppress the dam of pain. I could let the dam "wash away" and be free to experience my suffering with a full range of emotions. For the first time, I could tell that I’d be able to heal.