The Rose Garden, Chapter 11 – Secrets

Girl on a swing, Source https://flickr.com, Author Luiz Carlos (Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic)

WARNING:  Graphic Images

“For nothing is secret that will not be revealed, nor anything hidden that will not be known and come to light” (Luke 8: 17).

Since my father often worked nights, he slept late during the day.  This required that we girls make no noise which might disturb him.  We were constantly cautioned about this.

If we were still awake when he came home at night, giggling in bed was strictly forbidden.  My father would pound on the ceiling with a broomstick, or stand at the foot of the stairs and shout unspecified threats up toward us.

This produced sheer panic on our part.  It did nothing to diminish our love for him.

Anger, Insecurity, and Tenderness

Though my father’s anger pervaded our young lives, anger was not the sole emotion to which we were exposed [1].

Gnawing insecurity about his own abilities manifested in a lack of confidence on my father’s part that either my sister or I would ever make our way in the world.  That projected insecurity is something we have had to fight against.

It was, I believe, coupled with a failure on my father’s part to recognize his children as distinct from himself.  Such a failure is characteristic of narcissism [2].

Yet, there were times when he treated us with genuine tenderness.  This is the source of trauma bonding.

My father enjoyed pushing me on the swings when I was little.  The higher I went the better he liked it, and the more he encouraged me.  That I had a morbid fear the swings would come loose from their moorings and topple over, I did not mention to him.  Love was defined by the willingness to sacrifice — even one’s life.

I remember the time my father ate the peel off an apple for me at the park, leaving behind the juicy fruit.  I still have the small piggy bank Pop bought for me at the zoo.

He affectionately referred to my sister (who owned a yellow raincoat) as his “yellow bubble.”  He scrambled eggs for us just the way we liked them.  He brought home an endless supply of cold cuts, cakes, and pies from the store.

It was my father who stayed with me on an unusual outing to the racetrack.  Since I was too young to be permitted entry to the track, we stood outside the gate in the rain, while my mother went inside to place her bets.

On another occasion, my father arranged for an acquaintance to take us flying in a private plane.  Only years after my father’s death did I learn from my mother how he agonized over our safety during that flight.

My father drove us around the neighborhood each year to see the Christmas lights.  He would take us through the car wash with him — something I found thrilling, and my sister upsetting.  My father was, also, the one who taught me to drive.

I came home from those sessions numb, Dad’s voice ringing in my head.  “No!  No!  Keep away from the divider!  You’re not going fast enough.  You have to predict what the other drivers will do.”  How to predict the actions of other drivers — or, more importantly, his own — my father never conveyed.

Early on, I had a major accident while my mother and sister were passengers in the car.  My sister was about fourteen at the time.  The first thing I saw, after coming to, was the blood running down her face.

Despite that, she never once refused to ride with me.  She simply gathered up her nerve, and got back in the car.  As a result, I regained my confidence behind the wheel.

Once I had my license, my sister and I could drive north on the Palisades Parkway and picnic alongside.  These are some of my sweetest memories.

One afternoon, I came down with car trouble near the commuter college I attended.  Thankful to pull into a side street, I called my father for help.  After I had explained my location, he instructed me to stay put.  I waited in the car for several hours — grateful for my father’s effort, sure that he would come.

When he finally did arrive, however, my father was livid.

“Daddy, I’m so glad you made it!”

“I had to go over the bridge twice!  In rush hour traffic.  Do you realize that?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“How did you expect me to find you here?”

“I thought I gave you directions…”

“Not to this place.  I passed by the first time.”

“I didn’t know what else to tell you.  I’m sorry.  I’m really sorry.”

“I’ve been driving for hours.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“I had to leave Mommy alone in the store.”

“I’m sorry.”

Alone Together

As a young girl, I cherished the time alone with my father.  Of course, children who have been sexually abused are particularly vulnerable to trauma bonding with their abuser [3].

We would take long walks, and discuss the world at large.  With a quick mind and a short attention span, my father would shift rapidly from one topic to another.  It never occurred to me that the questions he posed about life might have no answer.

Whether I was of the same philosophic bent by nature as my father or inclined in that direction as a result of these discussions with him, I cannot say.

There was always an element of danger associated with the time my father and I spent alone together.  Ever upbeat, I chose to ignore this — in part, because I so longed to be with him; in part, because I could not predict when his darker impulses might make an appearance.

I wonder now why I did not run screaming from the room during those episodes — or at least tell my grandmother about them.  My father’s penis seemed the size of my forearm.  Of course, he was the one charged with our care, on those occasions when my mother and grandmother were both out of the house.

The answer may be that — hard as I tried to understand them — the episodes remained unfathomable to me as a child.  I was never clear whether I had the right to complain about them to anyone.

There was no harm being done to me, was there?  And who would believe me without evidence of some kind?  Then, too, this was my father.  I loved him.

Perhaps the real answer is that I hoped fervently each episode would be the last.

Secrets to Keep

There was one friend during grade school who moved me profoundly, but would never know.

Whether she would have considered herself anyone’s friend was debatable.  Friendship would have required too much disclosure.  I became aware of this the afternoon I offered to walk her home.

For some reason, she was resistant to the idea.  For me the new route, though longer, constituted a minor voyage of exploration.  I attributed my friend’s hesitance to shyness, and proceeded to accompany her regardless.

The tension mounted as we made progress toward her home.  Her uneasiness reached its peak when we entered the hallway to her home.  Whether because of the panicked look in her eyes or the dark at the head of the stairs, the realization finally dawned on me that this intended act of kindness was an imposition.

I left immediately, allowing her privacy from then on.  Ironically, we both had secrets to keep.

—

[1]  Medical News Today, “What to Know About Anger Management for Parents” by Beth Sissons (medically reviewed by Jennifer Litner, PhD), 2/24/22, https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/anger-management-for-parents#effects-of-anger-on-children.

[2]  Psychology Today, “13 Ways Narcissistic Parents Sabotage Their Children” by Julie Hall, 11/21//22, https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-narcissist-in-your-life/202211/13-ways-narcissistic-parents-sabotage-their-children.

[3]  National Fostering Group (NFG), “Trauma bond and how it can affect children and young people”, 2/18/19, https://www.nfa.co.uk/news-and-blog/what-is-a-trauma-bond-and-how-can-it-affect-children-and-young-people/.

Copyright © 2008 – Present Anna Waldherr.  All rights reserved.
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