Innocence Revisited

by Cathy Kezelman

  I needed support and understanding, but neither of them could provide it. They had a lot vested in censoring and dismissing the secrets of past years, while I had no choice now but to continue exploring them. To proceed was to do so at the cost of losing my original family, but to not, was at the cost of losing myself. My process had begun and could not be stopped. As hard as it was, I was committed to it.

  And so I continued on my way without my mother or brother and I grew a little more distant from each of them, every day.

  chapter 16

  Six months after my mother and I returned from the doctor’s place, Simon and I arranged a holiday for our mother; three days R&R in a mountain resort behind Queensland’s Gold Coast.

  I was a retiring fifteen year old, as tame an adolescent as one could find, but Simon, a first year medical student at Queensland Uni, had morphed into a full-blown party animal.

  The moment our mother drove off, Simon went out and he stayed out all of that day and the next. The following evening he insisted that I go with him to a party. He didn’t really want me to go, but he’d promised my mother that he wouldn’t leave me alone and was too scared of getting into trouble to not comply.

  ‘Wait here, Catherine!’ he orders when we arrive at the party. He dumps me on a couch and disappears down a corridor. I switch into invisible mode, a state I’ve mastered over the years. I share the couch with coupling couples until the wee hours. Just before dawn, Simon wobbles over and shakes me awake. He reeks of alcohol, smoke and stale bodily fluids, but somehow delivers us back home in one piece.

  I flop into bed and sleep until the early hours of the afternoon. I wake to an empty house. Simon is out again - a mixed blessing given his antics of the previous night. On a positive note, my mother is still away and her absence provides me with a much-needed break from her temper.

  My mother has never been calm but her fuse in recent years has grown shorter. I spend my days tiptoeing around her, though it’s hard to keep out of her way when she’s angry. When she’s angry she searches for a victim until she finds one, and both Simon and I are copping large doses of her fury. Sometimes my mother loses her temper because of something we’ve done, but more often than not her anger is fuelled internally. When my mother’s sparks ignite there is nothing that I, nor anyone else in the line of fire, can do to minimise the fallout.

  I always hated my mother’s temper. It scared me; not because I feared being punished, on the contrary I was used to the punishment my mother dished out. The problem was two-fold; it was impossible to predict her explosions and I was powerless to prevent them. When my mother’s volcano erupted, as it inevitably did, the release, however devastating, brought me relief. The foreboding suspense would finally be over. She didn’t just get angry, she would become enraged. As she turned red and puffy I would cower in anticipation of my punishment. More often than not, she would banish me to the bathroom and lock the door. Being relegated to the bathroom wasn’t altogether bad, it made my mother’s screaming more bearable; her screeching would be muffled by walls and doors, rather than being directed into my face.

  I didn’t mind being thrown into the bathroom; I was used to it. Once inside I’d generally sit back and enjoy the peace and quiet, even though at times I’d be too upset to do that. I’d shout, ‘Let me out. Let me out. I want to come ouuuut!’ and beat the door down with my fists until they throbbed. And when my throat was raw and my voice went hoarse, I’d crawl into my spot against the back wall, squat in the corner farthest from the door and let the tiles chill my bottom. Taking to the tiles in the corner allowed me to cool down while my mother’s anger abated. When I was little it was harder for me to wait alone in the bathroom. I would cry hysterically until I fell asleep, but as I got older the bathroom became a bit of a haven from the madness of the household outside. As a teenager I would usually sit quietly, waiting for my reprieve. My mother wouldn’t come while I was ‘making a fuss’; not agreeing with her, or in this case, demanding to be let out. Sometimes I wasn’t sorry, notably when I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. Sometimes I would pretend to be sorry when I wasn’t because I was tired of sitting. I would plead in my most angelic tones; ‘Mum, please. I’m sorry. I really mean it. I’m very, very sorry. And… and I promise to be a good girl. I really do.’ But nothing, not even that guaranteed my release. She’d make me wait until she was ready. Only when she was convinced that my will had been broken would I hear that key turn in the lock.

  Sometimes I’d take myself into the bathroom and lock the door from the inside. I’d been thrown inside so often over the years that it had become my special place. It was a place where I could be alone with my thoughts and I would go there with my penknife and a piece of wood and whittle the hours away by myself. Sometimes I would carve figures in soap instead because soap was soft and easy to work with. I could carve more detail in soap than in wood; in soap I could even carve a face. I used to be proud of my faces and leave them in the bathroom for my brother and mother to see. But more often the case, they wouldn’t pay any attention and flippantly obliterate my handiwork in their wash.

  *

  On the last day of the weekend when my mother goes away I lock myself in the bathroom with my penknife. I get undressed and climb into the shower, turn the water on and flick the pen knife open. I don’t have any wood with me and I leave the soap in its dispenser. I run the blade against my finger to see how sharp it is and cut myself on purpose. I watch in awe as blood emerges from the wound and starts to drip onto the floor of the shower below. Seeing the blood flow relieves some of the pressure that has been building up inside of me and I move into a surreal state.

  Excited I make a bigger cut on my left wrist.

  Cutting doesn’t hurt me once I’ve moved into a state of relative oblivion; physical pain doesn’t register. On the contrary, cutting myself, feels great because, it puts me back in control. I squat in the bottom of the shower watching small rivulets of blood form along my wrist and join together, flow across my hand and pour off the end of my fingertips. At first I feel calm and even a little dazed, but as the bleeding gets heavier, my initial relief fades and I become anxious. What have I done? What if I can’t stop the bleeding? Before long I’m in a panic; my heart is pounding, weird spots dance in front of my eyes and I slump onto the tiles in the corner of the shower as everything goes fuzzy.

  When I come around, I feel a cold shiver down my spine. The water’s still running and even though it’s warm, it isn’t warming me. I look around and see blood everywhere. I don’t know what to do. I’ve cut myself before, but never as deeply as on this occasion. I force myself to my feet, stumble out of the shower and pull a towel off the wall hook. I push the towel onto the worst part of the cut, climb back into the shower and squat under the shower nozzle. The water makes the blood stream again. I reach up and turn the tap off. As I do so, my head spins so I quickly squat back down. I hold the towel over my wrist and press hard. My head spins. I look out at the trail of crimson footprints leading across the bathroom floor. As I move to start cleaning them off, I feel faint again and slump back down. Although my head feels woozy I am perversely calm.

  I am chilled and covered in goose pimples. Blood is seeping out through the towel and I need to do something about it. The thought of Simon returning mobilises me to get out of the shower; I drip my way into my bedroom. I’m reluctant to mess up any more towels; I don’t want my mother to discover what I’ve done, but I do need to find a way to stop the bleeding. I pull two handkerchiefs out of a drawer and tie them tightly around my wrist. They’re so tight that I worry that my circulation is being cut off. The handkerchiefs slow the bleeding down, but don’t stem the oozing altogether. The wound is stinging nastily now; I’m no longer feeling numb. I tie an old T-shirt over the top of the handkerchiefs and dab myself dry with a different towel; I’m at pains to avoid getting any blood on it. I throw some clothes on and return to the bathroom to scrub the floor clean with the bloody towel. I rinse the bloody towe
l out but can’t get it clean. I get some detergent from the laundry and try again, but I still can’t get it clean. I take the towel outside and bury it at the bottom of the garbage bin and pray that my mother won’t notice that it’s missing.

  I crawl back into the bathroom and close the door, slump down in my corner on the tiles and fall asleep.

  I awake with a shudder and a T-shirt tied around my wrist. At first I can’t remember what has happened. The T-shirt is almost white but the hankies are a blotchy pink. I take the T-shirt off and lift the hankies up for a peek and remember. The bleeding has virtually stopped but there is dried blood over the top of the cut. I replace my bandages, push the bathroom door open and poke my head out. No one is around, I am still alone.

  Being a Girl Guide I know some basic first aid. I put my knowledge into action, cleaning the wound and painting it with the red stuff my mother uses on cuts. The red stuff stings as I put it on. I give my arm a shake, let the red stuff dry, plaster the cut with bandaids and wriggle into a long sleeved shirt to hide my wrist.

  I tended to my wound over the next couple of weeks, keeping it clean and hidden. No-one found out; I was good at keeping secrets too.

  The memory of how I hurt myself that weekend emerged out of the blue; I couldn’t work out what triggered it. I was still processing the memories to do with the doctor when it revisited and the combined impact of all of these traumas together took its toll.

  All of my adult life I had enjoyed taking showers and even more so, baths, when I had the time, space or inclination. Baths calmed me and provided me with the extra comfort I needed during challenging times, but prior to that shower flashback, I had stopped taking baths altogether and replaced them with showers. At the time, I was having three, maybe four showers a day. Showers provided me with a ritual of self-purification when I felt filthy on the inside; which I did throughout that period.

  One day, a couple of weeks before remembering how I’d cut myself, I’d felt compelled to hurt myself in the middle of a routine daily shower. I couldn’t explain what caused the compulsion, but it was so intense that I jumped straight out of the shower stall. After that, I could not countenance taking a shower again; I felt unsafe even thinking about it. I reverted to taking baths instead because they didn’t affect me the same way.

  As the memory of the shower incident returned, my feelings crystallised and I started to understand what was happening. I was feeling the same desperation I’d felt as a child and that desperation fed similar feelings in the present day as I’d experienced in past times. As my feelings of isolation peaked, I relegated myself to a metaphorical bathroom; a space in which I was fearful, alone and unable to feel the presence of those who loved me. When I went back in the shower inside my head, nothing existed, other than the intensity of my pain and my desire to be free of it.

  My memory of cutting myself as a teenager set off another cycle of suicidal thinking. I was able to discuss those thoughts with Kate almost immediately, because I trusted her more than I ever had before. Learning to trust her had been a slow process. Children are born with an instinct and ability to trust, but mine had been betrayed and lost early. Instead of it being reinforced, my ability to trust had been eroded. Relearning trust as an adult took time and patience and was only possible because Kate had provided me with the sort of unconditional care and support that children ideally receive from their parents.

  When I told Kate that I was feeling suicidal again, she reminded me about my family and how much they cared about me. About how my husband had supported me while I was recovering the memories to do with the doctor. How extraordinary he had been! How much my children needed me. And she repeated the process as many times as was required to contain my distress and get me thinking rationally. And when working to strengthen my connections failed to contain my disorder, Kate reminded me that I had signed a contract.

  ‘But it was a long time ago. It won’t hold me, because I can’t feel it anymore.’

  Kate suggested that we draw up a new one. I agreed straight away and in designing it, was forced to reflect upon my thought processes. As I did, I realised how irrational my thinking had become. Once again, a wave of isolation and despair generated from times past had ignited parallel emotions in my present.

  After signing the contract, Kate affirmed that I had a large family who loved and needed me. I had a therapist who cared about me and good friends as well. I was no longer alone as I had been in my childhood bathroom. Kate had shepherded me from the brink, back into the arms of my family once again.

  By this juncture Dan was better able to judge my mental state. Although I still didn’t willingly divulge the full extent of my suicidal thoughts, he could generally sense when I was slipping away.

  Dan understood how badly my mother’s present-day denials were affecting me and he could not blithely accept the way she continued to invalidate me. He grappled to understand her idealising of her dead friend, Monty, along with her stubborn refusal to validate any of my memories. He challenged her repeatedly on my behalf, both, in my presence and in private, and routinely returned frustrated from those interchanges. One particular conversation spoke for them all.

  On this particular occasion, Dan went alone to talk with my mother. Having observed the progressive erosion of my relationship with her and its impact, he was intent on convincing her definitively of the extent of the doctor’s bastardry. Having acquired consummate skills as a negotiator in his business dealings, he felt certain that he would be able to get through to her, and so mend the rift growing between us.

  He focused on the rift and the distress it was causing us both and suggested that my mother might consider acknowledging the possibility that some of what I had disclosed had happened. He used every possible argument to help her see reason. The conversation went through a series of phases during which he sometimes believed that he was making progress, only to discover in her next breath, that she remained resolute in her denials.

  ‘But Dan I do believe Baba’s memories. Of course I do, but these things couldn’t have happened.’ He was particularly perplexed by her capacity to make a firm statement with the utmost conviction, only to negate it and logically contradict it in that same sentence!

  After a good half hour of wrangling, Dan realised that she had not shifted her views one iota and decided to present my mother with a hypothetical scenario which he hoped would provide her with some insight.

  ‘Now Lucy, listen to me please. I have a question for you and I want you to think about it, okay? Here it is. How would you expect a mother to react when her daughter comes to her to tell her that she was raped?

  My mother didn’t respond.

  ‘What sorts of things do you think a mother might say?’

  My mother didn’t say anything. Silence.

  ‘Would she feel sad or angry?’

  Silence.

  ‘Well that’s what happened to your daughter. Your wonderful doctor friend raped her!’

  My mother could not answer him.

  He left her house defeated.

  Dan recounted the number of alternatives he offered my mother during that conversation and I was shocked. Despite my perception that I’d grasped the full extent of my mother’s inability to empathise, it was a devastating affront to have to concede that anyone, let alone one’s mother, could lack such basic humanity. I was finally being forced to accept that my own mother did not possess any capacity to nurture, nor to empathise. She was emotionally blind and I had been waiting for her to display the gift of sight.

  I will never know whether my mother’s emotional void resulted from her war time traumas, or whether she had lost that capacity earlier, or never developed it in the first place. I know that as a young woman she lost everything that she had held dear and the she had been unable to grieve those losses. Perhaps her losses had been so extensive that they could never be grieved effectively. How can one ever comprehend the scale of the impact of experiences such as those that were suffered duri
ng the Holocaust? That said, I am also aware that my maternal grandmother was short-tempered and that my mother was scared of her explosions. When she speaks about her mother, she could be just as aptly speaking about herself. I wonder if my mother suffered from the same trauma that I did when she was young, or whether she too had a mother who could not provide her the love that was needed. I will never know.

  I understand how the murder and mayhem my mother witnessed would have desensitised her to the suffering of others. I also realise that Holocaust survivors often believe that no-one’s life experiences can ever compare with the horrors they faced. In the book my mother wrote, she alludes to an incident in which food and shelter were offered in return for sexual favours. I understand how awful her experience must have been, yet no matter what reason I find for it, nothing adequately mitigates my mother’s behaviour, neither at the time of the doctor’s abuse, nor since.

  Around the time of Dan’s confrontation with my mother Kate went away for one of her holidays. I hated her taking holidays and irrationally resented her life outside of her work. I expected Kate to be available when I needed her and couldn’t bear to be abandoned by her. I had been abandoned in so many ways already. Conscious of my fragility, Kate was at pains to ensure that I could still contact her even when she was away. She left me her email address and her mobile phone number so I could message her if I needed to. Both of those options provided me the lifeline I needed to maintain my connection to her, and to my survival.

  During the weeks before her scheduled time away, we would plan the structure around the coming weeks without her. We would establish a routine for me to follow, a system designed to help ground me. We would identify people to whom I could go for support in her absence. The list included family and friends and usually a substitute practitioner as well.