Copyright © 2018 by Patricia Eagle
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published June 2019
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-519-3
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-520-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018953726
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
Interior design by Tabitha Lahr
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
“The Invocation to Kali, Part 5”. Copyright©1971 by May Sarton, from COLLECTED POEMS 1930-1993 by Mary Sarton. Used by permission of W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.
Excerpts from “Life-While-You-Wait” from MAPS: Collected and Lost Poems by Wislala Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh. English translation copyright © 2015 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.
Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.
In this collection of stories from my life, I strive to tell the truth and wish no harm. I have been faithful to my memory and acknowledge that others may remember things differently. Some names have been changed. Many important people and experiences are not mentioned.
I am here.
I am here,
and the ground
is under my feet.
The sun and the stars
are holding in the sky.
And Now is
a pray’r unfolding,
with no beginning
and no ending.
—lyrics by Becky Reardon
To Eugene Webb,
who encouraged both tears and laughter
on my healing journey.
To all those with the courage
to trust being truthful.
CONTENTS
Foreword by Kate Munger
Author’s Note
Introduction
PART I: FORGETTING AND REMEMBERING
Ready, 2017
Don’t Leave Them Alone With Me, 2009 & 1953
A Stormy Night, 1957
A Bike Vibrator, 1962
A Little Dabb’ll Do Ya, 1961-1965
Is What We Do Sex? 1963-64
One Last Time, 1965
My Dream Team, 1967
False Alarm, 1968
To Thine Own Self Be True, 1968
Palm-Readin’ Patty, 1969
A New Beginning, 1970
Determined, 1970
Desperate, 1971
Chance Encounters, 1972-73
Late for My Wedding, 1974
Running Naked, 1975
An Open Marriage, 1977
At the Last Minute, 1978
Careening, 1978
Grand Canyon Birthday, 1978
Wouldn’t I Have Known? 1979
PART II: TRY AND TRY AGAIN
That Won’t Work for Me, 1980
Good God, 1981
In the Care of An Angel, 1982
What’s in a Name? 1982
Shallow Roots, 1983-84
Do You Feel What I Feel? 1984
Bird Song, 1985
Nature’s Wisdom, 1986
Baby Blues, 1986
The Dam Breaks, 1989
PART III: NOT EASIER BUT BETTER
Denial, 1990
Lift Your Eyes, 1993
Gotta Have a Dream, 1993-94
Getting Better at Life, 1994
On the Mexican Border, 1995
Bury the Babies, 1996
Magic in a Bottle, 1996
The Canyon Takes Me In, 1997
All Cleared Out, 1997
The Hole in My Head, 1998
Once in a Lifetime, 1999
Firefly Fields, 2000
Charter Challenges, 2001-2002
Paris Rendez-vous, 2003
Velvety Ears, 2004
Flying Hog Saloon, 2006
PART IV: GO HOME
A Frightening Notion, 2010
Flicker Encounters, 2010
Night Music, 2009-2011
Snow Geese, 2010
Ding Dong Blues, 2011
Into the Petri Dish, 2011
Diabetic Coma, 2011
Taking the Time, Making the Space, 2011
Graced-land, 2011
Prayer Anyone? 2011
The Help Me Prayer, 2011
PART V: SEARCHING FOR YOUR HEART
A Good Visit, 2012
The Last Visit, 2012
Eulogy for Dad, 2012
Two Teardrops, 2014
The Last Song, 2015
Mom’s Eulogy, 2015
Just Like That, 2012-2017
Having the Space, Making the Time, 2017
Epilogue: Mornin’ Blanca, 2017
Helpful Resources for Navigating Sexual Abuse
Credits
Notes
Gratitude
About the Author
FOREWORD
by Kate Munger
Kate Munger founded the Threshold Choir, an international network of choral singers who sing for those at the thresholds of life. As of 2019, there are more than 220 chapters of the Threshold Choir around the world.
Sexual abuse is extremely personal and so secret it’s often hard to recognize. Each situation is unique, and its antecedents are designed to confuse both the victim and those of us reading about it years later. Perpetrators count on that confusion to outlast the memories of their perverted acts. The aftermath of sexual abuse can lead to a life that is excruciating to live until it is finally understood and possibly forgiven or often just overcome.
In this book, Patricia Eagle heroically redefines vulnerability and transparency. I’ve never read a book that exposes so much confusion, so many mixed up and simply bad decisions or mistakes that at the time seemed irreparable. Sometimes it does feel shocking that her honesty can be so unflinching and that is what will heal Patricia, each of us, and our ailing and complicit culture. I suggest that when you find yourself feeling “Wow, that’s too much,” you stop, go deeper, and ask yourself to stack your courage up against Patricia’s. You may find new clarity both in understanding Patricia’s life and decisions, and possibly your own. I found that, while my own experience of sexual abuse was different from Patricia’s, I could detect in myself some significant vestiges of denial, of purposeful, defensive blindness, and of emotions long stuffed that were hard to call up again but valuable when I did.
The timing of this book is remarkable. The courageous #MeToo movement that began in 2017 has shocked our nation and our culture. Words we have not heard before are being said on TV, concepts and admiration we have collectively held are being shattered weekly. Patricia’s book contributes strongly to this movement, to these voices, to this hoped-for freedom for children, young people, women, and vulnerable people everywhere. Not only Patricia’s story—told in vignettes relative to markers of age and experience—but also her choice of words help us heal, help us all become more able to say the word “vagina” instead of “down there,” and “rape” instead of so many other more vague, euphemistic words.
Patricia leaves clues everywhere, vital bread crumbs that show the challenging path to healing, through deep pits
of perceived and actual danger and the cacophony of the terrified voices that don’t want to compromise their own precarious safety by admitting the reality of abuse. Complicity is everywhere, at every level.
That Patricia can openly share the details of her life now is a testament to the tenacity of her mission, the depth of her healing, and to the strength of the love in her life. Hearing about her life coming finally to health and to fruition after over sixty years of exploration and struggle gives us hope that it can be done and that it is worth the intense hard work that healing requires.
Imagine the increased awareness of sexual abuse and its consequences if everyone read this book. Talking about sexual abuse at all ages can give our children and grandchildren and people of all ages the strength to scream and run, rather than submit to a powerful person’s criminal touch, or worse.
Since you’re holding this book in your hands already, I don’t want to stand a minute longer in the way of your discovering for yourself what treasure is contained in this story. As you do, keep in mind Patricia knows, understands, and loves birds and the amazing realm of avian beings. She loves wings, feathers, and flight. That she can still love these beautiful creatures despite their being intertwined with her relationship with her father, her abuser, is an indication of the joy of healing that permeates this book. Dive right in, savor each lesson that Patricia endured, and spread your own wings as you celebrate Patricia Eagle’s courageous journey.
—March, 2018
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a story about how my life was impacted by sexual abuse. It is a story about suppressing sexual abuse memories, having those memories surface, doubting them, then learning how to acknowledge and live with those memories in the healthiest ways possible.
Writing this book has been a crucial step in my healing process. Additionally, my intentions for writing this book are that anyone reading my book who has experienced, or is experiencing, sexual abuse will find more courage to seek help. I would like to help sexual abuse survivors learn to cope during the course of their lives, perhaps more carefully and thoughtfully than I did. Their choices, I hope, will include not forgetting—when that is possible—and not agreeing to secrets, silence, and being shamed. Perhaps there is even the possibility that, as a result of this book, a potential or actual perpetrator will seek help on becoming aware of the harmful consequences his or her actions have on the lives of any victims.
May this book guide more people to become aware of how confusing, heartbreaking, and destructive sexual abuse can be for victims, perpetrators, families of both victims and perpetrators, and our entire culture.
INTRODUCTION
Being Mean
Little minds do not have the words for what occurs during early sexual experiences and, when the words are finally learned, they can be way off the mark.
I caught an older sister humping pillows one day in our shared bedroom. This looked interesting to my four-year-old eyes. My sister did not want me there, so I was posted at the door to be on the lookout for Mom. Poking my head into the hallway didn’t prevent me, however, from watching closely.
Before long, I was trying out the moves myself—on the back seat of the car, the rim of the bathtub, or the edge of my bed. Extended pressure in just the right spot, in just the right way, created a warm sensation between my legs. Getting this rush calmed me, like sucking my thumb, and I especially wanted this feeling when I was mad or had been crying. It made me feel better, and it also felt familiar.
When Mom would catch me rubbing up against the edge of the car seat after running into the store, or find me humping the edge of a bed, she acted disgusted and called the activity “being mean.” Initially, I thought the words were “bean mean,” but it didn’t really matter, I knew what the words meant. As I got older, I would lock the bathroom door to engage in what had become a habit, while Mom stood on the other side knocking loudly and demanding, “Are you in there being mean?”
How do words come to represent certain actions in a child’s brain? Around that same age, or perhaps earlier, my dad created similar feelings in my body during our alone times. He touched and moved me in ways that made me feel good, just like rubbing on the bathtub rim or edge of the bed. Once I heard Mom yelling at Dad about being mean to me, so in a way what we were doing made sense. I just couldn’t understand why it made Mom so mad and, if she knew about Dad being mean with me, why she didn’t do something to stop us if she didn’t want us doing it?
My dad told me to never talk about our “special times.” Sometimes he told me he loved me and that I was special during these times together, so that soon love, feeling special, being mean, and things that felt good physically and emotionally all began churning around in my little tow-headed hopper in one huge muddled mess.
Not until high school did I discover that being mean was the same thing as masturbating. A boyfriend used the word when he showed me how giving him a hand job resulted in an orgasm. Hand job? Orgasm? Masturbation? Tell me, who would have taught me these words and phrases? My oldest sister by eight years was off to college and out of the house by the time I was ten, and I was barely fifteen when my other older sister, by three and a half years, married and moved out. Being mean or masturbation—I was shocked that I did not know the correct word for something I had been doing for so long and so often. I did not share my ignorance with a soul, but by that time I began to wonder, what else did I have wrong?
The physical pleasures I had come to know, whether on my own or mixed with what I believed to be affection from my dad, became scrambled in my brain. As with many sexual abuse survivors, I learned to ignore, deny, forget, make nice, and even apologize for what happened to me. Later, unknowingly, I was able to suppress these memories of confusing pleasure. But love and boundaries and sex and intimacy took on murky, messed-up meanings that I gradually learned would require a lifetime to unravel.
Confronting Sexual Abuse Memories
I sought my first counseling experience in my late twenties, then spent most of my thirties—right up to the point of my memories resurfacing—in one self-improvement seminar after another: EST (Erhard Seminars Training), Insight Transformational Seminars, and others. Before my memories surfaced, I journaled about how something wasn’t right with me, but I kept a mask handy that, by then, fit just right. It served not only to camouflage my feelings, but also to block my view. In my thirties, I finally began accessing and voicing my memories about sexual abuse. When memories began pushing to the top of my consciousness, it took a big effort to face such experiences and try to make sense out of them.
But as my memories surfaced, I inched away from what I could not begin to understand. I was not even sure I wanted to understand. Through my forties and fifties, glimpses of what had happened earlier in my life brought such shame. “How can I know what is real?” I beseeched one therapist after the other. Meanwhile, grief resulted, a deep, debilitating sadness that slumped into the shadows of my life and resurfaced as symptoms—depression, migraines, numbing.
Such grief work is soul work, author Francis Weller claims in The Wild Edge of Sorrow. I believe it. He explains how what has been severed for the sake of our preservation can be rejoined for the sake of our healing. Such experiences are complexes, he explains, “fragmentary bundles of concentrated emotional energy formed when we were confronted with an experience too intense for us to successfully digest.”3
By my late thirties, when sexual abuse memories were seeping to the surface of my consciousness, what I really needed was a good therapist. But this was the late 1980s and there were few therapists with experience in sexual abuse. The prevalent opinion was that this kind of stuff was better left unsaid. Let it be and get on with your life. Being a victim of anything ran counter to looking for the upside of life, being positive, and taking full responsibility for my reality. Two incest support groups offered guidance, along with one therapist who offered a supportive but religious slant that was challenging for me as an on-again-off-again C
hristian. For the next seven years, I trudged ahead without therapy while moving from central Texas to Mississippi to Houston.
A Rationale for Repressed Memories
People unfamiliar with the experience of repressed memories don’t understand how memories can be locked away and then suddenly resurface. Even close friends have asked: How could you ever forget such poignant memories from younger years? I wonder: How could I have survived if I had remembered? How would I have managed to grow into a relatively functional human being, have girlfriends and boyfriends, go on dates, be invited to other people’s homes, learn how to be and what to do in order to be considered good and fun and pretty and smart?
Living with two depressed, bitter, and frequently angry parents, and two distant older sisters—who often seemed sad to me—had been my reality. With both sisters gone from home by my fifteenth year, I was left to navigate the extremely tense life in our one thousand-square-foot house alone with my parents.
My mom acted like whatever was wrong in our house—and there was always something wrong—was my fault. By then she had been put in a position of choosing between Dad and me, and between me and her image of being the perfect mother and wife. She did not choose me. I cached memories deep and tried to fabricate a life that offered some kind of alternative to a home environment that felt baffling, wrong, sick, shameful and, yes, somehow my fault.
Who would I have talked to anyway? Schoolteachers? A pastor? A doctor? A friend’s parents? A friend? A boyfriend? My older sisters? My mother? When I was fifteen, I told my mom about what I thought was a dream where Dad was hovering over my bed. She slapped me so hard my face was streaked with red welts, kept me home from school, then did not talk to me for days.
Mom had worked hard to line up her duckling daughters and have us waddle to her beat: hair curled tight; smile now; always look good; wear clean, pressed, and pretty clothes; be careful what you talk about; and remember, everything is just fine at our house. Author and storyteller Christina Baldwin explains how we believe what we are told is true when we don’t feel like we are capable of changing. “Individually and collectively we maintain areas of prescribed silence, a sort of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ complacency so that we don’t have to live with the tension of inconsistency,” she writes.4
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