Slave to Secrets: An Autobiography of Self Discovery

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Slave to Secrets

An Autobiography of Self-Discovery

Balboa Press

It's September 12, a Wednesday, and yesterday was the one year anniversary of my cousin Marc's passing.

Marc was diagnosed with a cancer known as melanoma. Skin cancer sounds so benign—a bad mole, a little skin tag that won't heal, something for tanning bed abusers and sun worshippers, though Marc did neither of those things. Yet this unassuming cancer causes almost fifty thousand deaths a year in the United States alone. I had to watch helplessly as my vital, young, strong cousin went through eighteen months of hell. Three times the cancer went into his brain, and he fought back until the last time, when it took his life.

I grew up with my cousin Marc; we went through high school together in the same class and graduated with each other, along with another cousin of ours. We actually didn't know one another growing up, which says a lot about my family. I came home complaining about him and it was then I was told he was my cousin. From that point on, he treated me like family. I was always fond of Marc. It was nice to call him "Cuz" and feel part of a something like a family. My own family, which consisted of my father, mother, and a brother who was two years older than me, had more than its share of dysfunction. My father's side of the family lived in the area, but he and his siblings were always at odds; feuds and grudges were to the only way they communicated with one another. So when Marc and I got to know each other well in high school, I was proud that I could tell people we were related and that I felt like part of a family, since I rarely got to feel that.

Marc and I lost touch after high school, as typically happens when adult lives take over. In 2010, we reconnected through an Internet social media site, and I found out he was battling cancer. I immediately offered any help and support I could give.

It was like something outside myself propelled me to reconnect with Marc during this time. I came to his side to be of help and comfort to him, and it turned out it was he who helped and comforted me instead. That horrible diagnosis of cancer gave me something so precious: the gift of unconditional love from a family member. Something I never had or thought I would ever know. I visited him throughout his illness, and we had deep conversations and spoke of so many things. He had this tremendous capacity to listen without judgment, to love without stipulations, and to just simply care. He accepted me; he didn't care about anything that had gone on in my life. He knew me for me and loved me all the more for that. These were some of the most precious moments in my life, experiencing this connection with another human being. Marc helped me deal with the humiliation of finding out about my husband's affair and the utter devastation that followed.

A week before he died, he said, "Come, crawl up on the bed with me." He was so frail, trying to make room for me in bed. I laid my head on his pillow next to him and he wrapped his arms about me. He held me tight, caressed my hair, and told me," I love you so much; you mean so much to me. I will always look out for you." I fought back the tears as I took in this gift. I felt so loved and accepted.

Two days before he died, we were out on the patio of his hospice room enjoying the sunshine when he shooed everyone off the patio in order to tell me, "You know what? I love you, and I am so glad that we are close as we used to be. It sucks that I had to have cancer for that to happen, but I'm glad I got you back in my life." Again, I found myself fighting back the tears as I accepted his gift.

My heart was breaking; Marc was going to die and leave me. Instead he was focused on making me understand he was leaving me behind with the most precious gift he could, to know unconditional love. It was very healing to understand that he loved me no matter what. For the first time in my life, I was enough. I didn't have to do anything. I could just be and be enough.

I am not sure I knew at the time how profound an impact my relationship with Marc would have, watching him deteriorate and fight for his life while he lovingly encouraged and championed the people around him. His illness allowed me to see life and its many aspects. I reflected on my own life. I saw that there was nothing that had been done that couldn't be undone, and I didn't have to accept that my life was written in stone and couldn't be changed. It isn't an entitlement to expect to have loving, faithful support from a spouse. It wasn't wrong to believe my parents should be good people with my best interest at heart without any manipulations behind it, yet I had been surrounded by this type of thinking my whole life. I was forever in the wrong with my spouse, who was now jealous that I was spending so much time with my dying cousin. When I found out about the affair, he told me he did it because of all I was doing for my cousin who was dying of cancer. My parents or my brother (who I had not spoken to in a couple years out of self-preservation) talked badly about me all over town. I had been placed under a reward and punishment system when it came to family for my entire life and it continued on in my marriage. After all, I had been consistently trained that love contained threats and came with conditions.

"Mommy, Mommy, it's dark in here." I cried. What lay before me was a long set of steps leading down to an old limestone basement, more a cavern than a basement and without lights that sheltered bats on occasion.

"Let the boogey man get you!" my mother hissed back, and I heard her footsteps walk away.

I remember I saw light under the closed door; I reached my fingers into this crack trying to stay connected to the light's bright warmth and not be enveloped into the darkness to which I had been sentenced. I recall vividly how utterly terrified I was, sobbing and begging, "Mommy, please! Mommy, please! Let me out!"

I have thought about this memory many times and realize it is a metaphor for my life.

It's one of my first memories, and I am a small child. A toddler, really. I didn't know what I had done to deserve this treatment. I mean, I knew I had done something. My brother, who was a couple of years older, had taught me a dirty word and told me to tell it to our mother. I didn't know what it meant, but our mother's response was to give me several spankings that lifted me off the ground and then lock me in an unlit basement and walk away.

It seems like an irrational response to any rational person, but when it came to my mother, rational was rarely her choice. She was a vacillating conundrum to me my entire childhood. Most of the time, I was treated with disdainful distance and used as her household slave, but then out of nowhere she would do something that I considered supportive. I would experience this glimmer of hope only to have her slam the door closed on me again.

I know now, as an adult who has gone through a lot of therapy due to my childhood abuse, that targeted child abuse from a narcissistic mother is nothing new. Simple research can show hundreds of cases, books, and wholes web sites devoted to adult survivors. However, when I was a child and my narcissistic mother was my primary caretaker, I certainly felt alone in it, that I was the only one going through it, and grappled with why I was never good enough no matter how hard I tried.

I have known for a long time my mother was a narcissist. Narcissistic personality disorder is when a person has an overblown sense of one's importance and a preoccupation with oneself. Narcissists see the world as their stage where they are the puppet masters in a mental play they construct in their heads. Narcissism in mothers is typical for the disorder because mothers see their children as extensions of themselves. Typical behaviors include reacting to criticism with rage, shame, or humiliation; taking advantage of other people to achieve their own goals; excessive feelings of self-importance; exaggerated achievements and talents; fantasies of power, success, beauty, intelligence, or idealized love; constant need for admiration and attention; disregard for the feelings of others and little empathy; and excessive self-interest in pursuit of self-centered goals.

Narcissism may be the name for a personality disorder, a sickness of the mind, but my mother's abuse toward me was always a choice. There are many stories where my mother would haul off and beat me enough to leave marks only to come to me crying and apologizing later. My youngest ages were my most confusing time. Being at the mercy of my mother for care and protection coupled with her actions toward me made me feel like I couldn't face the world with confidence because I was constantly doubting myself, my reality, and my world. I often thought of myself as the family dog that everybody kicked. I also saw myself as Cinderella and somewhere deep in me, like her, I knew I was worth more than the treatment I was getting.

Sometimes the abuse took odd forms, like when my mother dyed my hair blonde as a child. I was born with head full of black hair; it all fell out when I was a baby as it typically does with infants. It grew back a strawberry blonde, but by my kindergarten year it was white blonde, which I was led to believe was a family trait. I didn't find out until I was thirty-two years old that it wasn't real blonde; my mother had been bleaching my hair. Now who does that to their child at that age because they want a blonde child? My narcissistic mother is who. She was adding yet another facet into her world of insanity and what it is to grow up there. It seems benign; it was just hair color, but it speaks volumes about how she invasively she governed my life. Both my emotional and physical perceptions of myself were not mine to own from a very young age. I was to be used, manipulated for her to get more attention, admiration, or whatever she was seeking. How much of my reality was actually real, not some conjured delusion from the mind of my mother?

How could I ever hope to know my true self?

When I was born, my parents seemed to be happy about it and wanted me. I was, obviously cared for by what I see in the photos. I was told stories about myself as child, like how my name came about. My dad wanted to name me Jennifer, but my mom knew about a Jennifer across the street that she didn't like, so I clearly would not be named Jennifer. My brother was not thrilled at my arrival, and I heard the stories many times about how he rejected me, climbed in my crib, and peed on me or bit me every chance he could. My mother had such affection for my brother that she never disciplined him over any of it; instead, I was the child to be blamed, and that goes back to as far as I can remember. My brother had me convinced I was adopted, as he would proudly point out there were so many more pictures of him than there were of me as a baby. It wasn't long before I wished for that to be true.

In pictures it is apparent that my mother dressed me up, and I felt I was Daddy's girl to some degree, if only for a little while. My dad gave me pet names like "Shorty," "Short Stuff," and "Short Cake," but I never heard the words "I love you" from his mouth. During my early childhood, I was his constant sidekick. Even for the affectionate nicknames, my relationship with my father was very black and white. It was so consistent that I can't say it was something formed in reaction to my mother's manipulative personality as much as it was his own hard, no-nonsense personality. Hugging and cuddling wasn't something that I got much of or saw between them.

There was a love disconnect in my family. We existed with each other under one roof. My parents were not affectionate with one another. I recall trying to make my father hold my mother's hand because it was something I never saw them do. I have never seen them kiss, even a quick peck of hello or good-bye, let alone hug.

My father certainly delivered the punishment in our house. He had a carriage whip, a hard, long whip with about a foot-long loose piece of leather, and both my brother and I were whipped with that. I recall many times scooting across the floor on my rear to get away from him and that whip while trying to protect my rear. One day my brother and I broke it while my dad was at work so we would never get whipped with it again. His second choice of beating was with a slivery piece of wood that we called "lats." He would beat us until it broke. Depending on how angry he was, he would continue with his hand. Needless to say, my brother usually got the brunt of it, which further caused my mother to reject me. She would snarl "golden child!" at me under her breath. Mom would also tell me that her doctor wanted her to abort me whenever she wanted to remind me how little importance I held. It was because of her that I was here and I should be so grateful for the opportunity she gave me at life. She would also remind me that because she gave me life, it was also my fault that she suffered physically to bring me into this world and I was the reason for her physical ailments. Never mind that she smoked a pack of cigarettes a day since she was eighteen and had a love for Cheetos and Pepsi, which seemed to be her daily diet.

My mother resented that my father was tougher on my brother; she felt he got tougher punishments than I did. I don't remember this particular incident because I was so young at the time, but I remember the story because my mother believed I was the reason that it happened. She resented me and my father for it, and it was brought up repeatedly through the years. It was a story of my father beating my brother with the hook end of a belt and the hooks stuck into his flesh. My mother felt I was somehow behind my brother getting disciplined like that. I simply don't remember what led up to my brother being punished or why so severely. I just remember being sad for my brother and thinking how scared he must have felt.

This was the emotional groundwork that was laid out for me, the tools I was being given by my parents. I was a small child trying to decipher the hot and cold natures of both my parents and learn to function in this family dynamic.

Those were not the darkest moments of my childhood, those were yet to come. Something significantly changed when I suffered sexual abuse when I was six years old by an adult relative.

I was approximately six years old and like many children was going to my grandparents for them to babysit me. My grandmother had remarried and though technically he was a step-grandparent, to me he was simply Grandpa.

I had been going to my grandparents' house to be baby sat for some time. One day my grandpa and I were in a back bedroom of their house. I was sitting next to him when he began touching me. I stayed still; I didn't know what this was or what he was doing. I knew something wrong was happening. I also knew that I was to listen to adults and do what they say without back talking them. He continued on to violate me and take my innocence.

That was the moment my soul changed. There are so many repercussions as to how this affected me, but one of the hardest parts about being sexually abused as a child is my ability to define my sexuality from my personality with my age group as I matured was stolen. To be a kid with other kids. To be the me I was born to be. I had a working knowledge of sex now, which other kids my age didn't have. My first innocent kiss, which I would have with a boy my age many years later, was accompanied with a flash of sexual abuse memory and a sinking feeling that the kiss was wrong. The right to be innocent is a horrible thing to steal from a child.

This rippled over into how I carried myself as a child. I gained weight. I have pictures that show the difference in me in one year. I don't look like the same child. I was petrified to attend sex education class and would feign illness. My mom knew I was scared and would keep me home and make me clean the house and be her personal servant and then make fun of me in front of my dad and brother. The effects of this one incident continued for years, carried by my abused soul into my adulthood. As an adult, I was entitled to have healthy sexual desires and explore like everyone else, but all of it was overshadowed by the abuse.

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Excerpted from Slave to Secrets by VITTORIA WYATT. Copyright © 2014 Vittoria Wyatt. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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