From time to time, I use this blog to explore the non-erotic parts of my life. This is one of them. So, a caution: this piece deals with the very upsetting subject of incest. It is not meant in any way to be read as a piece of erotica. Rather, it is an examination of the phenomenon commonly knows as countertransference. (click on the linked word for an explanation of what this is)
The girl sitting in front of me feigns boredom with every fibre of her being. Layers of carefully applied nonchalance in matte powder. Eyes lined with exquisite control. A mouth like a maraschino cherry – sweet and carcinogenic.
I smell on her the curdle of skin kissed by the wrong lips. The mothy pulse pale blue beneath a white throat, trapped and silent, glued in place with guilt and self-disgust, like her dead butterfly eyes. They’re pinned on my corkboard, pretending to read notices for normal people.
She does not want my assistance. To accept would be to acknowledge a flaw. And even the tiniest crack in her armour could presage the splitting open of her entrails. All she has left is the integrity of her facade. There is nothing else. She knows that I know and she hates me for it. Far less painful to be roadkill than to drag herself over to the curb and beg for help.
Perhaps the first time, or the second, or the third, but now the silence has accreted a mile deep crust of spent fluids and frost, of tears dried to salt and other things that turn my stomach.
Unnatural doll. I know what her father, your uncle, your brother – someone – did to her. The rancid scent of it stinks up my office like a suppurating wound, carried on the moist breath of each impassive exhalation.
I try every way I know how to reach her. I’ve temped her with space and food and a small dark burrow, but she’s not a small furry animal. She’s resigned herself to being someone else’s atrocity. And, without even knowing it, she casts me in the same pit.
And I, for all my sins, will not be what she needs. I cannot bend into the model of the mother who didn’t notice, the adult who looks the other way. But it’s the only game she can play. The only game I cannot abide. Until the rage I feel becomes more than me. More than the room can contain. And she has won: she is right. We are all the same.
I can’t stitch up all the rips or mop up the flow of wrongness pouring out of her. I can’t make the bastard take it back, or stop, or pay. She’ll walk out my office the same way she came in. Unhelped, unloved, unwhole.
This distance – this is the only border she has left. And I, seeing that it is indeed the very last border, am not brave or arrogant or sure enough of myself to violate it. I am left with the mute stain of her privacy.
And even as I remind myself that this is not about me, it takes all the control I have not to throw her out the window.
The last line of this is beautiful.
RG… this is the piece of yours that I’ve read that’s had the most layers to it, of course that’s my perception of it, not yours (and she’s off!). I don’t want to unpick the piece in my mind, or here, the layers are all delicately and deliciously resting on each other and I’m happy to leave them there in my mind. It’s a powerful piece, thank you for writing it, I do so admire your talent and your tenacity.
One teeny, tiny point & I’m not nit picking, terminology is important in these things… incest can be consensual if it’s between consenting adults, which it sometimes is, but, what you’re describing certainly doesn’t appear to be consensual. It would make the psychology nerd in me happy for that to be clarified.
xxx
I think I’m going to leave the issue of consensuality alone in this case, because although people like to paint it as a thick black line, it often isn’t. Shall we say that, in this case, the transgression is burdening someone, too young to carry it, with the weight of participation in something almost all cultures consider repugnant. When you are an adult, you can rationalize both the act and its consequences. As an adolescent, you can’t and should not be expected to.
“Incest can be consensual if it’s between consenting adults …”
That’s true, but the act is still incest, and therefore subject to all manner of emotional turbulence after the fact.
Yup, one can be sufficiently arrogant and sure of oneself to be frustrated and angered by someone’s refusal to open up, but it takes understanding and self-contol to suppress those feelings and allow that person their privacy.
I think you let me off too lightly.
I don’t think so, there’s nothing to let you off for. You’ve done all that you could; maybe it’s of some comfort to her to know that you tried to help, that you would if she wanted it.
Want to say something here that makes sense – but the best writing always leaves me a little stunted. ‘Dead butterfly eyes’ ‘pinned on my corkboard’ – we’re watching something we’re not meant to, much too private, no matter how common – and you make us feel it, like punishment. Who isn’t a coward?
Reads like a scene from something bigger – wonder if it will be.
Chilling stuff.
This is honestly something I don’t wish to revisit. I got it out, I mea culpa’d. I’m done.
This posting is incredible for a number of reasons. You have opened up a psychoanalytical concept &, by dint of your language, made it accessible & understandable. You have also laid out your feelings on a very public platform – a brave act, in my opinion, and a hugely commendable act: you have disclosed your rage & helplessness. Many people (in my experience) would have kept that to themselves for fear of being judged by others. In fact, you have done all that ‘the girl’ finds it impossible to do: open up, be real, feel the feelings.
In my experience, being with people (in a ‘helping’ situation) who have suffered (& are still suffering the consequences of) childhood abuse can be the most demanding & draining experience. Inevitably, the countertransference kicks in quickly & a whole gamut of thoughts & feelings surge upwards into your brain. And then what do you do? What do you say? How do you be?
In my humble opinion, given what you have written, you responded in the best way possible. And not only that, you hung onto your extreme countertransference feelings & accepted your helplessness until she had left. Now that really does take some doing.
Sadly – my guess is that you were probably left to deal with all those heavy feelings on your own. I know of no academic institutions in the UK where, other than the token counselling service, there is provision for academic staff to seek support & training around such issues. That is so wrong (if I’m right).
Finally, I want to thank you again for sharing your experience via your blog. You have countered the ‘stink’ created by the perpetrator(s) by writing in a way that removes the stench just long enough for people to read & understand the impact sexual abuse has (not only on the victim but, also, on those who encounter it as you have). And the way you have written it … for me, absolutely pitch perfect. Thank you so much.
Thank you so much for commenting, Peter. For a long time, I didn’t actually understand what had happened. I didn’t have a name for it. I really hated myself for having such unkind feelings. I can’t say I feel a whole lot better, but just understanding the dynamics of what was going on is something of a relief. Nonetheless, ultimately, she did not get the help she needed. I was untrained and had virtually no resources to offer her – we do have a counselor and I did my level best, over and over to coax her to go and see them, but to no avail.
I’m hoping now – now I know more about it – I would be more effective.
I agree with MUCH of what Peter’s said, however, it’s important to say, for me, that when someone is in that place of pain and hurt that they are the only one ultimately in control of what permeates their own barriers and what doesn’t.
Others can offer alternatives in terms of ways of being, options for expression, release, healing and ultimately freedom, liberation and the taking back and reveling in her own power, but… she will make the choice as to whether she wants to take those or not and when, if, she does the time will be right for her.
My experience on this issue, which is vast and multi faceted as you know, has told me firmly that in order for the power that was taken to be regained it must be the work of the one who is damaged and no one intervention or action by another will alone be the cause for that switch to flip, but, it may be years of many ‘near interventions’ or attempts by others, such as you, to ‘be there’ for her before she comes to the point of realising that it IS possible for her to heal her own pain.
The human psyche has an amazing ability to filter all sorts of information in ways that we really have no comprehension of despite all the psychological and psychiatric research that’s been conducted, however, it’s entirely clear that the vast majority of control over our inner and outer lives lies with our unconscious mind; these are most often not conscious decisions and choices we make in terms of our own healing.
This is an incredibly complex issue with much that could be said about it from many different perspectives, but for me the most important ‘bit’ in it is to just ‘be’ with it, to be present with the horrors and the beauties of it, the vulnerabilities and the triumphs of will and all its’ other complexities ~ which is exactly what you’ve done RG.
i read it & I felt it
I thought it was very evocative. I can be highly perceptive at times, like the analyst(?) in the essay, but the bastard curiosity that drives it can be damning, not so much for me, but for the people that I see, who cling so desperately to the illusion. You *can* see to much. Especially if you poke at them, you can break someone open and they will die forever.
I’m not an analyst! Hehe. Nothing of the sort.
I love your honesty. It’s beautiful, and so important.
Sometimes when I read you, Rgrl, I don’t feel I can contribute to the discussion; what I can do best is keep silent and let your work do its work. I can say this, yet again: You give us something we can’t get any other way.
I sat there too. Me on my bed, the eyes and understanding everywhere. No lips or outward facade for me, only the self protection, flashy in its awkwardness and impervious to direct or indirect approach. I was helpless to do anything but stay with the lies I had told to protect from the more that I feared would come with truth.
I wonder how she is today.
I would like to think she’s okay. But in my gut, I just don’t believe it.