by Sue Julsen
I know someone spoke the truth years ago. I just don’t know which one—Henry with his accident story? The neighbors and kids at school with the tale of suicide? Grandmother with her story of murder?
Or, was it my mother all along?
I can only presume, but I still believe my mother’s words—spoken with conviction—that she’d die before being locked away again. I know what I believe could’ve happened, maybe happened, probably happened, but still, the truth of her death will remain a mystery, forever.
Since I began writing about my life, I’ve been asking myself if I still loved Daddy, the man who hurt me, lied to me, abused me over and over again, and I wasn’t sure. I thought I did until I started writing down everything I’d been told, or overheard, as well as all my own memories.
Thinking back to the times when he left me alone in the car overnight or for days on end while he went off with some strange woman, I know I loved him, then. Even when he starved me for days and weeks on end, I still loved him.
I worshipped Daddy.
I worshipped him right up until the day I found out he’d been lying to me all those years. And even then, when I knew I couldn’t trust him any longer, I still loved him with all my heart. Only one thing had changed for me on that truthful day so many years ago when I saw Mama again. I no longer liked him.
I still have a vague idea of what Daddy looked like from a picture I had years ago. The black and white photo showed him with his arms around Mama; his dark hair appeared thick and wavy. They were smiling.
I never had any other snapshots of Daddy, but in that picture, just like Mama had told me, he really was tall, dark and handsome. Unfortunately, I can’t remember what he looked like in person, and that one photo has since been lost.
I’m left with a struggle to hang on to what’s left of my vague memory of that man’s picture in my mind because when it’s gone, I won’t remember what Daddy looked like at all.
I don’t know if it’s really important to recall his face, but because of all my other memories—everything I’ve tried to forget, but haven’t been able to—I feel that man needs a face for me to associate with.
I think back to Mama and how she must’ve felt during those sad, lonely years after Daddy kidnapped me. She didn’t know where he’d taken me or if she’d ever see me again. Against all odds that I’d be found alive, with the help of her brother, Henry, and the FBI, Mama still looked for me. She hung on to her determination to find me; she refused to give up. Then, after all those years of being away from her, when she did see me again, she still remembered me.
That had to be love.
But, what does that say about me? Did I stop loving Mama? Was that why I forgot her? I thought I still loved her after Daddy took me away. I can only imagine how devastated Mama felt when I didn’t remember her at all. I’m sure it broke her heart, and yet, she did an excellent job of smiling and telling me everything would be all right.
Of course, I had Daddy to thank for me not remembering her. During those years on the run, he did everything he possibly could to make sure I’d forget her. But even after he banned me from talking about her, I still tried to keep her memory alive in my secret thoughts. I tried so hard not to forget my mother, the woman who had tucked me into bed believing when she came home from work I’d be there and we’d have pancakes.
After a few years of heartache her memory began to fade; I couldn’t recall her voice or her touch. Then, one lonely day, I realized I couldn’t remember what Mama looked like. All my memories that I’d tried so hard to hold on to were gone.
Thinking back to my memories of the woman who came for me, I recall she didn’t get mad at me, or yell at me, when I didn’t remember her. She seemed really nice, and we had lots of long talks for three wonderful days.
It wasn’t until she told me she wanted me to come home with her and promised to never let me out of her sight again, that I honestly didn’t care if she was my mother or not. I wanted to go with her. I wanted to be with someone who wouldn’t leave me. Someone who would love me—no matter what.
I guess I should’ve been angry at Aunt Molly for secretly calling Daddy after Mama and the FBI came to her house. I hadn’t seen him or heard a word from him in nearly two years and, I should’ve been angry at him for showing up, begging me to not leave him!
Of course, he didn’t know I’d found out about his lies, or whether I even believed what Mama had told me. Since that day, I’ve wondered if Daddy claiming he wanted me to stay with him wasn’t just another feeble attempt for him to hurt Mama.
Hadn’t he hurt her, and me, enough already?
Then, I think about me deeply hurting him when I told him I couldn’t stay, I had to go home with Mama. I guess that’s why it was called brainwashing. I felt so sorry for Daddy when he started to cry. I never wanted to hurt him. But, he’d told one too many lies, and he’d left me one too many times.
That day, by the Grace of God—that same God I’d given up on even existing—without consciously knowing it, I cared more for myself than I did Daddy. Luckily, I never saw or heard from him again. Daddy really was a good-for-nothing creep.
I did see Aunt Molly once after Mama died. I hadn’t been adopted yet, but I was living with Henry and Olivia when Aunt Molly and a woman friend of hers came to visit me. She tried her best to get Olivia to let me go with her, alone, to the store. It was just before Mother’s Day. Aunt Molly said she wanted me to pick out a gift for Olivia. However, Olivia didn’t trust Molly, and refused to let me go. Olivia believed my daddy would be waiting around the corner to run away with me again.
Maybe he was, but I’ll never know.
I spent so many years trying to go it alone; trying to understand all that had happened to me, and it was a long, exasperating journey to get where I am today. But, thanks to a friend’s referral close to twenty years ago, I found a superb therapist.
I’ll call him Dr. D.
Dr. D helped me to understand all those things that had happened to me were not my fault, and, if not for my ‘voices’, my disassociation, I wouldn’t be alive today. I also no longer believe those horrible things Olivia said about that scared little kid who just wanted so badly to be loved.
I probably should feel sorry for Dr. D because of all the crap he had to read week after week. But, with the help of those journal entries, or most of the time just ramblings of whatever popped into my head that ended up on paper, he was able to break through the protective wall I’d put around myself.
I always remembered bits and pieces about my life with Daddy, but when I first started working with Dr. D, and we began to delve into all that crap, I started having nightmares every night again. Shortly after the nightmares began, Dr. D discovered the others: Ann, Jean, Polly, and Scottie. He was able to talk to them while I was in a hypnotic state. Eventually, through dreams, I also remembered them and what they had done to protect me.
In trying to forget my past, I’d suppressed all memories of the others, but with Dr. D’s help, I learned they really weren’t just a figment of a child’s imagination, and despite the fact that normal people don’t hear voices, maybe I wasn’t crazy.
In nightmares, just like they’d done for so many years, they again, talked to me. They showed me all the things I didn’t remember had happened, and all the things I’d blocked out—all those things Daddy, his brother, Frank and his sons, Janet, and Molly’s husband, Frank, had done. Everything came rushing back.
When the memories first returned I was scared to death of the others; especially Jean. Jean was so damn much like me, at least the temper side of me, and I still have one hell of a temper when pushed into a corner. I suppose I always will since I’m German/Irish. Not an excuse, but the heritage explains my temper, and my hardheadedness.
I always knew it wasn’t normal to hear voices whispering in my head, but what else had been normal in my life? It wasn’t until after a suicide attempt that I learned to deal with that never-ending pain (that loss) I felt inside,
and I no longer felt frightened of Jean or the others.
I finally believed I wasn’t insane.
In the very beginning when I first disassociated, the only voice I heard was Ann, my guardian angel. Gradually I started hearing the others, too, and soon after, I could see them in my mind. Jean was the pre-teen me. It didn’t take long to learn, because of her temper, she was the tough, brave one, and she liked to cuss!
Polly, always so sweet and quiet, wasn’t much older than me. She acted more like the real me than the others. She was shy and withdrawn and tried so hard to make people like her. Polly, like me, only wanted to be loved.
Scottie, the only male me, trapped inside with a bunch of girls, was just a few years older than Jean. I always liked listening to Scottie’s accent. I thought he enjoyed doing what those men wanted, but he promptly set me straight; informing me he didn’t enjoy it at all. He did it only to keep the girls from having to do it since they always got sick, and being gay, he never had to throw up. Logical? I thought so. But Scottie also had a heart of gold.
Ann, my first protector, and the oldest of the others, tried to keep peace in our private little family. I truly don’t know what would’ve happened to me if she hadn’t saved me that first time with Daddy.
The terror I felt was what brought my wonderful angel to life, and she was always there to protect me. Being the strongest, Ann protected the others, too. She protected all of us from the cruelty of so many men who paid the evil stepmother to get their kicks with a scared little girl. I trusted Ann and the others; I loved them.
Ann truly was a guardian angel.
Until Ann arrived I’d been so lonely…so lost. Ann and the others saved me from unbearable heartache and physical pain so many times. I owe them my life.
After I learned they were real and accepted each of them for the roles they played in my survival, even though I felt extreme gratitude, I was still scared to admit hearing voices because of what society would think. I was afraid of ending up in a sanitarium in a straightjacket!
I haven’t been visited by them, or their voices, in over thirty years, but I’d like to believe, if needed, they’d still be right by my side helping me.
As for Daddy—I came to realize that I hated him for a long time, but no longer. I still don’t like him, and the things he did to Mama and me, like Granddad said, are unforgivable. But, if I feel anything at all towards him now, it’s pity.
Love? I don’t think of love when I think of Daddy. He didn’t know the meaning of the word. Daddy’s love for me was a backhand across my face, sex and instilled fear.
After all I’ve learned, as well as the pain I endured, again I ask myself if I love Daddy, and my answer today is a firm—NO! How could I love the man who did all the things he did? All the things a father isn’t supposed to do to his daughter?
He didn’t act like a father, so I no longer feel an obligation to love him like one. Besides, love can’t exist or thrive with fear as its motivator.
True love is wonderful and should be cherished. It should be respected and nourished. The proper kind of love truly is unconditional. When true love lives in the heart, everything is breathtakingly beautiful, and to share that beauty—that love—with a spouse, a relative, or a close friend is a gift to be appreciated and treasured.
Unfortunately, Daddy never learned that lesson.
I don’t have terrifying nightmares to haunt me any longer, but I wonder if Daddy ever had nightmares of the bad things he did.
As for Olivia—It took many years of soul searching, but I no longer blame her for her beliefs, or for trying to beat the meanness out of me. Who knows? Maybe she did. Maybe because of the daily whippings I turned out the way I did.
She didn’t have the greatest childhood, either. Olivia was younger than I was when her mother died. She was raised by her father, a preacher, who I liked a lot, but from stories heard, being a preacher’s kid is just as hard as being a cop’s kid.
Her dad eventually remarried, but I don’t know the relationship Olivia had with her stepmother. I do know, for many years she didn’t have a woman’s influence to teach her how to be a good mother. I’m sure Olivia did the best she knew how to raise me. I just wish she’d known that listening, believing in a person, hugs, kindness, and understanding goes a lot further to building a loving bond than a belt, switches or paddles.
I believe if she’d gotten me the professional help I needed when I first went to live with them, my life would’ve been much better. I wouldn’t have had the worthless feelings, the sorrow, and the gut wrenching pain I lived with for so many years. Even as an adult I couldn’t shake these feelings.
Several years ago I forgave Olivia for not knowing any better, and maybe, under different circumstances, we might’ve been friends like she had been with my mother.
All my life, until I found Dr. D, I tried to run from my feelings. I tried to run from myself. Like my mother, for quite a few years, I also tried to drown myself in a bottle of booze. I couldn’t face those feelings that I really was no good; that I had turned out like Daddy.
Nearly fifty years later, if I dwell on it, I can still feel that gut-wrenching sadness overpowering my thoughts with what could’ve been IF Daddy hadn’t kidnapped me, IF Mama hadn’t turned to alcohol, IF Mama hadn’t died…IF I’d known at ten years old Aunt Julie and Uncle Jason wanted me.
I lived with Henry and Olivia for eight long years, and even though parts of it never turned out the way I wanted, or had hoped, my only regrets today are: (1) I didn’t have enough quality time with Henry, (2) I didn’t find out until grown I could’ve had a happy life with Aunt Julie and Uncle Jason and, (3) I waited so long to seek professional help.
The latter, I partly blame Olivia for. She never let me talk to the preacher, and even when our family doctor examined me for the first time and told her I’d been treated in ways a little girl shouldn’t have been, she refused to get me help. Just another case of my family’s motto: sweep it under the rug…it never happened!
But that’s okay! The main thing I always had going for me, like my mother, was my hardheadedness! I had a strong will to live a life different from the teachings of Daddy, and I proved Olivia wrong—I’m not anything at all like him!
I believe, today, that scared little kid has come a long way toward living a happy, fulfilled life, and even though my life started out as crap, then continued to be somewhat crappy for several more years, I climbed out of that gutter.
I climbed ALL the way Up to the TOP!
Normal? That’s something I’ll never know.
IF I’d had a “normal” life—that’s not so important anymore—and, whatever the hell “normal” is—it can’t be any better than the life I have now.
It’s been a long hard struggle for many, many years, but thanks to Dr. D and the four years of weekly therapy with him, and of course with assistance from Ann, Jean, Polly, and Scottie—I made it!
Taking on a life of its own, my story has dealt with explosive topics that former child victims of mental, physical and sexual violence will understand, and I hope it will help “regular” people understand the pain and sadness endured.
Child abuse, neglect and/or abduction are national epidemics.
I urge parents of abducted kids—the ones who beat the statistics and were found alive—please don’t wait to get the child professional help. Even if they seem to be okay, unknown fears may be lurking; just waiting to destroy the child.
For any adult survivor of abuse, with or without abduction, seek help immediately. Talk to someone. Buried fears could be waiting to raise its ugly head; waiting to keep you from living a fulfilling, wonderful life without hidden pain of the abuse/abduction, and whatever else may have happened during that experience.
Even if you haven’t experienced this firsthand, but you know of a parent or a child who was abused or abducted, share my story. Help save that child; make a difference. Recommend this book so that person can receive the help needed. It’s not necess
ary to live with the pain, the unknown feelings of—it’s my fault; I’m being punished for being bad; my life isn’t worth living.
My life was a living hell; one of the extreme worst, but it doesn’t take extreme to mess up a child’s head. It doesn’t take extreme to possibly drive that child to taking his or her own life because the pain inside becomes overwhelming.
My story was told in hopes another child might be saved from such a life.
As for me—Today I believe I am a good person. I am capable of loving, and being loved, and I’m happy. With a wonderful man in my life for twenty years, and a handful of really terrific friends who I hold very dear to me, I feel exceptionally lucky.
Lucky, not only because I was one of the fortunate kids to be found alive and, for the most part, healthy after years of being missing, but I have people who love me and respect me for the person I am today—not for who I might’ve been or could’ve been so many years ago.
Today, my life is unbeatably the best it can be!
I am a survivor!
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About the Author
Kidnapped when she was three years old, Sue began her writing career as a means of escape from the emotional scars and repetitive nightmares from her childhood. She started her first book, a sci-fi, in grade school. With only one more chapter to write, her aunt found the manuscript hidden in Sue’s closet. Without reading it, she called it garbage, a waste of time and paper, then forced Sue to watch as she tore it up and threw it in the trash. Giving up writing until she had left home at 18, Sue started writing poetry, then wrote her first book, the memoir about her life after the kidnapping. Not stopping there, she’s written two other books in this series, and has a new poetry book out that exposes feelings never shared before. She is currently working on a series of short stories. Today she lives in Nevada with her husband, two dogs, a cat and a bird. She enjoys the outdoors, reading and writing. All of her books are available as e-books and on Kindle. Her poetry book is also in audio.
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