The Rose Garden, Chapter 2 – Flypaper

School girl, Source https://www.flickr.com, Author elmimmo, (CC Attribution 2.0 Generic)

WARNING:  Graphic Images

“Fathers, do not provoke your children, lest they become discouraged” (Col. 3: 21).

My father helped uncounted strangers.  He gave directions, fixed tires, delivered groceries, shared tools, shoveled driveways.  He lent money that went unreturned.  He cleared debris, cut down unwanted tree limbs, and cleaned the home of one elderly man for years.

My father, also, molested me [1].  I have struggled with the scars of the incest my entire life.  My mother never knew about the molestation.  At least, I never told her.  Of course, we were trained early on to protect her.

Why stir things up now?  I am after all a grown woman.  My father has been dead for many years.  I have — I think — come to terms with my past and my pain, perhaps even forgiven him.

Compartmentalization

Yet certain questions haunt me.  Why did this happen?  Did narcissism perhaps play a role [2]?  How can the disparate aspects of my father’s personality be reconciled?  Admittedly, child molesters are expert at compartmentalization [3][4].  Why then can I not break free?

Onset

People who have just learned of the incest will — after a distressed pause — often ask how it first began.  That is not a question I can answer definitively.  I cannot recall the first time.  I simply do not remember a period when the incest was not a part of my reality.

They say children begin to form coherent memories around the age of two.  As abhorrent as the thought may be to anyone concerned for the welfare of children, infants can be molested.  But if the incest had been happening as early as that to me, the subsequent rage would have been so monumental as to destroy me.

My best guess is that the molestation started the summer I was four.  That was the summer my younger sister was born.

Our mother had a difficult pregnancy.  The house was in turmoil because my father and grandfather had decided to install a bathtub.  I remember the smell of plaster and the vacant feel of the house while my mother was hospitalized for the delivery.

Did her absence create opportunity for my father?  Did it generate some unnamed anxiety he chose this way to ease?

Acting Out

Certainly I was acting out sexually by the second grade, a sure sign I was being molested.

Since I attended a parochial grammar school, we wore uniforms, the skirts a sturdy navy serge.  Generally a model student, I invented a game which involved the girls pulling up one another’s skirts.  This caused a great deal of uproar and embarrassment.

The girls in my class learned to sit rigidly on alert, their skirts tucked tightly beneath their thighs to guard against surprise attacks.  Unfortunately, I was at a loss how to prevent the more sinister attacks taking place at home.

Though I could not say why I found the skirt activity compelling, I did not need to engage in the behavior to satisfy any sense of curiosity on my part.  I had by the second grade long known where babies come from, and seen my father naked at close quarters.

He emphasized that this was for my own good; was to compensate for the fact that he had been deprived of anatomic knowledge as a boy.  His sexual instruction was for my benefit.  So he maintained very nearly until his death.

Not that my teachers took notice back then.  Reporting by educators of abuse suspicions did not become mandatory until 1974.

I was ordinarily, in fact, teacher’s pet.  I enjoyed school, therefore, did well.  The fact that — despite this — I was being treated by my father as very nearly mentally impaired set up an internal dichotomy it took decades to resolve.

Horror

I have no words to convey the horror my father’s assaults produced in me.

One minute we would be watching cartoons together.  The next, he had exposed himself.

Imagine a cool summer’s day.  It is early morning.  You open the screen door and step out onto the porch, kissed by a soft breeze.  The world is green and new. Dappled sunlight filters through the trees.  You stand still for awhile listening as orioles tune up. After a few moments, you turn reluctantly; go back indoors to chores and the real world.

It is only then that you see.  A hoard of flies somehow entered the apartment while the screen door was ajar.  You are at first stunned by their number. There must be eight or ten.  How can this have happened so quickly? Then disgust sets in.  Your gorge rises, but there is no relief at hand.  Somehow you have to deal with the situation.

Frantically, fruitlessly, you beat at the flies with a towel, hoping to chase them back outside.  Effortlessly, they dart beyond your reach — hovering in the air, polluting it by their very presence.  Your mind races.  You try and think of a logical solution.  Instead, images of rancid meat come to the fore, dead bodies afloat on turgid waters.  You cry out silently for God’s help.

You make an assessment that drastic measures are called for.  You leave for the nearest hardware location, in search of a remedy.  At the store, you purchase insect repellent, pest strips, flypaper, in hopes these will solve the problem.

You force yourself to return to the apartment.  The flies circle, in full possession. You wrestle disgustedly with the flypaper; struggle to maintain control, now bathed in sweat.  The flypaper clings to your clothing.  Your nausea increases. One packet is particularly difficult to maneuver.  It finally pops open, the loosened top unexpectedly striking your breast.  You shriek.

You use the insect spray; hang the pest strips, the flypaper, and pray these will work.  The flies continue to circle.  Meanwhile, you attempt to resume your day, to go about your business.  As if nothing had happened.

Only, the situation is repeated.  Day after day.  Without prior warning. Again and again and again.

My father was always a fan of flypaper.  We had the strips hanging in our home every summer, despite their repugnance to us as children.  I cannot bear them, even today.  Perhaps I empathize too closely with the flies.

We were never tortured, never beaten, never forced to eat spoiled provisions.  Our parents worked tirelessly to keep food on the table, and a roof over our heads.  My mother would have died for us, if necessary.

So why was this fundamental intrusion not recognized as reprehensible?

—

[1]  Mama Bear Effect, “Red Flags of Child Predators”, https://themamabeareffect.org/red-flags-of-child-predators/.

[2]  Psychology Today, “3 Ways Narcissistic Parents Can Abuse Children” by Imo Lo, 5/4/22, https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/living-emotional-intensity/202205/3-ways-narcissistic-parents-can-abuse-children.

[3]  Richard Nicastro PhD, “The Dark Side of Mental Compartmentalization”, 3/5/19, https://richardnicastro.com/2019/03/05/the-dark-side-of-mental-compartmentalization/.

[4]  Psychology Today, “The Thinking Processes of Sexual Predators” by Stanton Samenow PhD, 12/15/17, https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/inside-the-criminal-mind/201712/the-thinking-processes-sexual-predators

Copyright © 2008 – Present Anna Waldherr.  All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60247-890-9

Originally posted 5/30/21

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