The other day her phone call sent me to the bottom of the darkness. My heart ached for her, and wanted to reach through the phone and give her hug. I tried with my words to keep her calm, to let her know she was loved, and to let her know she is never alone. She calmed down, but after we hung up, I fell apart.

That night as I drove to pick up my husband, I played my favorite crying songs. Sarah MacLachlan’s Angel and Answer, along with Evanescence’s My Immortal. They played as loud as I could handle and I sang just as last. The tears streamed down and those passing by in the other cars just stared, but I needed it. I also knew I needed a “happy face.” It is drink at one of the local steak houses. So that night I had crying music and happy faces… Not your usual therapy, but it helped…

The world is spinning with no apparent exit. I search for a place to jump off, but even if I find it,  I get pulled back in.  My daughter is on an endless roller coaster ride of emotions and memories. The flashbacks have come back along with the nightmares. It is all brought back to her daily reality. This makes me worry and makes the world spin faster. I want to bring her some peace and take away the nightmares, but I cannot do it. It is not mine to do. I offer support and I worry as the world spins faster around us.

Does the world ever stop spinning? Do nightmares ever stop coming? I know the answer, but I keep hoping it not to be true…

The date passed and I did not even give it a thought. Things seemed to be going so well. Now, a month beyond that and I am sliding down into darkness. Fear invades my thoughts as I watch my daughter struggle with choices made and the past that raises its nasty head once again. She is struggling and as I watch from the sides, I present a smile and offer nothing but love and support. Deep inside I am crying, cussing and fighting just to breath…

I cannot believe she said it. No, I guess I can believe it. A comment made without thought to what was being said… that is what she does.

Who is she? My ex-mother-in-law. What did she say? She asked my middle daughter if my youngest daughter (her little sister) still says her dad molested her. When my daughter replied with yes, my ex-mother-in-law went on to ask/state how she wondered who put my youngest daughter up to saying that her dad molested her and how her mom (me) must have done it. My daughter told her that she did not want to talk about it.

I heard this directly from my middle daughter whose voice went teary as she told me what took place. It stirred up the muck that had settle for the last little bit. For the rest of the day the murky waters haunted me and brought back feelings I had not had to deal with for a while. Later in the day I slid down in the chair and cried. I did not cry for myself or over the words said, but for my youngest daughter who is not believed…

I can believe that she would say this as it is her son, but she should not have addressed it with my middle daughter. I further realized that once again my name, my life, my reputation has been slandered. When we were married, I was the blame for everything that was wrong or went wrong. After we split up it continued. Now I am the blame for my daughter stating that her dad molested her.

She has stirred up the muck… the waters are now murky… I am once again struggling to breathe…

I just found the site “Let Go…Let Peace Come In Foundation.”  It is for adult survivors of sexual abuse.  I did not know it existed. A great resource for anyone whose life has been touched by sexual abuse in anyway…

This Mother’s Day held several surprises. Days before it arrived, I received cards and photos from my middle daughter. The words written, touched my heart. Then on the Thursday before, I received a text from my youngest about getting together on Sunday for an early lunch. I met with her and we had a lovely time at a local vegan restaurant. She also gave me a Calla lily and locket with a picture of her and my paternal grandmother inside. Back at my house I prepared dinner for my husband and my mother-in law. We had a nice visit and meal. I then called my mother and had a great visit. Next my oldest daughter called. She was joyful and had a gift for me. We met on Tuesday and she brought the boys with her. They gave me a photo in a frame that said Nana. Since that time I have reflected on how far things have come over the last year.

The oldest and the youngest are still fighting. The oldest does not believe that her little sister was molested by their dad. She is blunt in letting her know this. My youngest has called in tears over it all. For so many years my youngest held in what her dad did to her to protect her sisters and their relationship. Having a sister shut her out was her biggest fear and now it is fulfilled. I am still trying to work it out with both of them. I love them both. It is hard. I believe my youngest and am a bit saddened that my oldest daughter does not believe or support my youngest like I do. This mother’s day, I thought a lot on the two of them. Both treated me like a queen and I am glad my relationship with both improved over the last year.

This year, my middle daughter let me know that she has left the congregation where her dad attends and is meeting with a new congregation. She is no longer a conservative “church of Christ” member. She does not believe in corporal punishment for children nor does she believe in “earning her way to heaven” as is preached indirectly in her dad’s congregation. She is happier than I have seen her in years. I never talked badly about the church to them and still do not do so now. I did let her know that it was the church that wore down my faith and spirit and not the luring enticement of the world that led me away. I told her I was glad she was in a place where her spirituality and faith would grow. She understood what I was saying.

This mother’s day, the girls all let me know that they treasured me as their mom. It has been a long road to this point with many joys and tears. I am celebrating Mother’s day every day now in counting the wonderful blessings that each of my daughters are to my life. Someday I hope for a Mother’s Day with harmony between them all and belief in the statement that their dad was a “child molester, a sexual abuser” and that  he committed “incest” with his own daughter. I want them to believe it… For now I just reflect on the great gift I have been given in these three wonderful strong women I call my daughters…

On Friday,  after coming into work I was called into a meeting. In this meeting we were told that one of our teaching assistants committed suicide on Thursday. Her father found her. She was 22 years old.

I had to shut all emotions off in order to greet and teach that day, but  at the end of  the day it was hitting. I ached for the father who will live with the images and pain of discovering his daughter.  I discovered my daughter’s attempt in time to save her life… this young woman’s dad did not have the same chance.

I am lost in thought and sadness. She was so young… What made her do  it? Could we have helped her and prevented this? So many questions, but I know in my heart that we often do not see.

I am numb…

My heart is tight and my emotions right at the brim of tears. The one person who my daughter trusted after her revelation and attempted suicide, turns out to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Contingent upon my daughter’s release from the hospital/treatment program was the proof that she had an appointment with a therapist. They supplied her with a list of names and she chose a woman who was a Nurse practitioner. My daughter was delighted with her and the progress seemed to be coming forth. I had written in previous posts that I had even attended two sessions with my daughter and at both I was raked over the coals, but she was helping my daughter, so I put my feelings aside. I also wrote how I did not like the therapist as she made assumptions and offered stereotypical answers to challenges–we all fit into her neatly defined textbook explanations–but again, she was not for me and again I note my daughter felt she was the best and one who understood her.

Then one day my daughter said she could not get out of bed. The medications the therapist prescribed seemed to be dragging her down rather than helping her. Her anti-depressants were making her depressed and she was having thoughts of suicide again. This is a known side effect of some medications and especially in children/young adults. My daughter was neither, but her body size is petite and thus served as a factor. Alarmed, she talked to the therapist about stopping the medication. The therapist stated she did not support the move and would not treat her if she was not on the medication. The therapy sessions turned to battles and finally my daughter quit both the therapist and the medication.

She moved on with her medication free life and found a new therapist. She changes jobs, actually began accepting and connecting with family members again and moved on. Then the wolf came out of hiding and started e-mailing my daughter with bills. We found out that during the treatment, the therapist never filed a claim with the insurance that my daughter had through her dad. After my daughter left, she filed and then when the insurance did not pay, she started harassing my daughter.

During the 7 months of treatment, the therapist never once sent a bill or requested payment. Now she was e-mailing the bills and threatening to turn it over the a collection agency. We tried to intervene and discuss this with the therapist, but nothing seemed to matter but the money. Before we knew about the delay in billing we called and  explained how my daughter’s dad was the one responsible for her coverage since she was student and therefore responsible for the bill. She told us that she would contact him. We never hear anymore for a couple of months and then my daughter received a notice from a collection agency. We followed the rules and filed a disclaimer and waited for an answer.

Today the answer came. My daughter called in tears as she received a summon about the claim. She is torn up over it. I talked to her about getting legal counseling. We will get all our ducks in a row to protest the charges, but the damages and toll this is taking on my daughter’s emotions right now cannot be fixed.

I too am sick… sick with worry… worried about my daughter and what she will or will not do… I am also worried about all other young women… all others who see this therapist… a wolf in sheep’s clothing causes greater damage because the sheep builds up trust and then once it is established, the wolf comes out and savagely tears it away… A wolf preys on the weakest of the herd… Is she any different than my daughter’s dad, the molester?

I am driving to work. I spend a lot of time driving. I am singing along with Bryan Adams at the top of my lungs while reviewing the material for the classes that I will teach that day. Without any sign or warning, the pictures start to flash in my memory. I try to turn them off, but they are persistent.

I keep seeing her sprawled on the floor. The blood stained knife close by and the deep lines in her arm weep her blood. The river in my eyes begins its flow as I fight to see the road. I push harder to evict the flashes, but they are carved in my life. I give in and cry as the slide-show of that night goes on. Words join the flashes. The sound of the medics arriving and the police. The sobbing by all of us there who love her and wonder why.

Next to arrive with the flashes are the emotions of the time. The horror of finding her, the worry of whether she is alive or dead and the answering a million questions asked by the police while the head was swimming with worry. I feel the anguish and the tiredness of the night in the hospital. Then the anger and heartache crash together with the revelation of what her dad did to her and how it brought her to this point.

I arrive at my work another song later. Parking in my spot, I choke for breathe and composure. I don’t want to forget, but I want to control the flashes. I do not like getting caught flat footed, but I realize that I do not have nor will ever have control over them. They are  and will always be a part of my life… our life… my daughter’s and mine.

The call comes in late at night. Once again the car is not working. After a bit of chat, the decision is to have it towed to the shop and she can borrow the truck. Her car is old, but she loves it. We pick her up at the shop and take her to the truck which we have given to someone else to use. It is late and we all need sleep.

The next day a trip to the shop gets the work going. Bad spark plugs, bad distributor cap, and bad oil. The air filter is no longer made or stocked, but on this car it is  metal, so a good cleaning can be done. Finally the car is ready. She comes by the house for a chat before going down to pick it up. It is then we notice the new tattoo marks. They are on her chest and up on her collar bone. Beautiful work, but no time to talk about it as the car needs to be picked up.  She goes to pick it up and then returns to the house before going to work.

We hear more about her tattoo and her boyfriend’s tattoo as well. As I look at and admire it, I find I have questions, but I do not ask. They are not questions for her, but questions I ask myself. When she heads off to work, we talk about it a bit. She now has four tattoos. One she got before going to college. My husband took her in for the first tattoo as a gift to help her get over her fear of needles. It worked. A year later she had another done on her arm. Almost a year after the attempted suicide she had one done on her arm to cover some of the scars left by the cuttings. Now there is this one.

I wonder about her reasons for getting so many. I wonder if she thinks about the impact of having them so visible. I like them, but not everyone else does. I have even been given flack for mine since I am a teacher. Of course none of this I say to her. I just support her decisions and admire the wonderful line work. Hers are all black and white, mine is color.

As I write this I reflect back on the days I would take her to a clinic at our local university to work on her fear of needles. I remember the battles over blood draws and dental work. The fear of needles is gone and I am glad in that she now gets medical procedures done that she needs, but I worry about the attraction to the pain of getting tattoos. I guess the worry goes back to my suspicion that she use to be a cutter. The method she chose to try and end her life on that one fateful night. I think the cutting was her way of dealing with the secret she was keeping from the rest of us. Her secret of the sexual abuse by her dad. Now I wonder—has the tattoo needle replaced the cutting?

I reflect on Neil Young’s  song that played an important part of my teen years… “I’ve seen the needle and the damage done… A little part of it in everyone…” The needle here does not do damage, but is it a representation of the damage done by the man she called dad?