Dancing with the Octopus

by Debora Harding

  I made small talk as I put the kettle on. Where only a moment before my heart had been racing with anger, I now felt flat numb. Self-loathing returned. How the hell could I judge Dad for not standing up to Mom when as an adult I was no better?

  I took the toast and tea in to Vivian, who mentioned several times how thankful she was. I watched her eat in tiny nibbles. We had spent a lot of time together in my years in Washington, D.C., and she had flown out to visit us in England a few times. I had packed up her apartment and put it on the market after she had cancer surgery, but since she had moved in with my parents, I had avoided calling because I was scared of Mom picking up the phone.

  I was worried about Vivian’s health, but I was more worried about her depressed mood. I asked her if she was getting out of the house. She looked over my shoulder to make sure the door was closed and then confided that she had asked Gayle to help her find an assisted living apartment and to set up a separate bank account so Mom no longer had access to her money. She said Mom was spending it without her permission. For example, she had used Vivian’s money to replace the kitchen, saying it was necessary now that there were three of them in the house.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Mom had disappeared somewhere upstairs.

  In Which I Meet a Fishy Oracle

  Indianapolis, 2001—I drove over to Dad’s office. It was located in one of those strip malls. I was welcomed by a well-manicured receptionist named Jessica, who was full of midwestern cheer. Dad came out and introduced me to his five sales reps, then took me into his private wood-paneled office all serious-like, as though he were about to share something deep.

  After he shut the door, he motioned for me to sit down on the couch, then took a deep breath.

  “I have something to show you,” he said thumping his fist on his desk. I jumped. A fish, mounted on a wooden plaque with a brass plate titled Big Mouth Billy Bass, swung its head round and began to sing, in a reggae voice, the lyrics to Bobby McFerrin’s song “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”

  Dad sprang up from his chair, and with his middle-aged potbelly and his happy feet, started doing this side-to-side little elf dance. He had his mischievous smirk on his face and was delighted to see I had begun to crack a smile. The song continued . . . Don’t worry, be happy now / Oooh, ooh-ooh-oOh-oOh-oOh . . .

  Dad wiggled his butt and turned. It was a vintage performance, and after it was over, he came over and put his arm around me, told me how happy he was to see me and how much he had been looking forward to our visit. Maybe I had grown old, but where I had been charmed in the past by my father’s humor, I was now murderously frustrated.

  “Dad, are you aware that Vivian hasn’t eaten for two days and is seriously depressed?”

  He stopped, switching to listening mode. I told him about Mom’s reaction in the kitchen. He said he knew that things were stressful between the two, but he wasn’t aware that Vivian was ill.

  “Dad, this is what neglect of the elderly looks like.” I tried not to sound lecturing. “It doesn’t matter what tension exists between Mom and her. Even if Vivian had chosen not to eat for two days, that in itself raises concerns. You might not spend much time at the house, but this is happening under your roof.”

  “I’m glad you’ve brought it to my attention,” he said, looking genuinely concerned. “I’ll check in with Vivian when I get home.”

  “Dad, that’s not going to be good enough this time.” I could tell he suspected that I was going to say something about Mom. I felt the weight of it between us already. “When are you going to understand she hasn’t changed? You infantilize her. She’s the one who should be taking care of Vivian. She’s home all day.”

  “We are not going to discuss your mother.” I’d never seen Dad so angry before, even the muscles in his face were tense. But it made me come back harder.

  “I’m not talking against her, Dad. This is more serious than that. As far as I can see, she still has the same authority in the house she’s always had, she’s just learned to wield it in a different way. You think because she’s medicated and had six weeks of therapy, she’s changed? The only thing that’s changed is we are no longer children under her care. Can’t you see her treatment of Vivian is the same kind of abuse?”

  “I hear what you are saying about your grandmother,” he reassured me, “and I will check in on her at home. I was wrong to assume she was okay.” He then asked me if the drive had been okay, and it was clear the conversation was over.

  Thomas and I and the kids made it through the holiday according to plan, but it required amazing acting skills. Two days later, we headed back to West Virginia.

  In Which I Reach a Tipping Point

  Shepherdstown, 2002—I returned to therapy with Dr. H feeling like I had passed an exam, but barely. I needed to build up the inner resources to start asserting new boundaries. And thus began a lengthy correspondence between Indianapolis and Shepherdstown, as Dad and I began efforts at reaching some kind of compromise in our relationship, one that didn’t insist I have a relationship with Mom.

  It wasn’t the first time my father had been through this process. He had already experienced the heartbreak of failing to save his relationship with my older sister. As for me, I had tried to cut myself off one other time, only to resume our connection as if our family dysfunction was normal. It was right before I left the United States for England, and it lasted just nine months.

  For as powerfully as the forces were pushing me away, I wasn’t able to sustain the separation from my father, whom I dearly loved—a man who did deserve more understanding, a man who was compassionate and giving and deserved my respect. No matter how logical I was about it, I could not accept that Dad deserved rejection. But I could no longer afford to refute the truth of who my mother was—that while she might suffer from mental health issues, this did not mean I had to abide by her cruelty, her moods, her anger.

  So I wrote a letter. To both of them. It was six weeks after our Christmas together. It began with a full disclosure and update of my mental health, which strikes me now as an unnecessary peace offering of sorts. But it provided the lead-in. That my breakdown—and indeed the depression of my teens and twenties—had discernible cause. Where I had been prepared before to dismiss my pain as the distorted symptom of my confused mind, I would no longer do so.

  I did my best to be compassionate and respectful. I thanked them for all the positive memories we had built, the ways they had supported my family in the move, but said the power of the pain I was carrying as a result of the issues never dealt with had brought us to a point where I could no longer continue in the relationship. Specifically, and most painfully, I took Dad on, telling him I would no longer allow him to define what kind of relationship I had with the woman who was my physical and psychological abuser, and that I would no longer accept his denial of the extent of her cruelty, both past and present, nor would I stand by while she continued to hurt people I love—my sisters, my grandmother, maybe my children. I said I couldn’t engage with Dad as long as he lived with her. I laid down the rules. I said any attempts by Mom to engage would not be responded to. It was an unbelievably hard letter to write. I felt physically exhausted, signed the page, and wrote their address on the envelope.

  Dad’s response was unexpected and crushing in its concern. He said he was sorry for the pain I endured, very sorry. He wanted to support me in any way needed. He understood that my responsibility was to my husband and children, and that I owed him nothing. He regretted his part in all of this and asked that I please know I was loved by both of them. I lost my resolve and called him. We agreed to keep communication open between him and me.

  In May he called me on Mother’s Day and asked if I’d like to speak to Mom. I declined.

  It pushed me to be more honest in my next letter. I pointed out our problems were not in the past. I again recapped the symptoms of complex PTSD and depression I had suffered from. I said that I didn’t hold him responsible for my mental health as an adul
t, but that he could have done things differently.

  People endure loveless marriages without resorting to the violence that Mom used on us. I pointed out that he expected my sisters and me to forgive abuses that he was not even willing to hear occurred. I pointed out that she beat us, terrorized us, and disrespected us. In addition, she had cheated on him and made Genie and me accomplices by threatening us if we were ever to tell him the truth. She told us he’d hate us, not her. I said I would not go back to swallowing the unresolved pain so I could have a relationship with him. It was ripping me apart. In short, I was convinced if he heard all of it, understood all of it, he would view things differently.

  A few days later, I received his response. He wrote back that he now understood the enormity of my experience, at least he heard and understood so much more than he had before. “I acknowledge the atrocities and the serious physical and psychological abuse inflicted on you by her. I also wish I realized why you were not happy as kids. Now that I am looking at the issue squarely in the face, I will come to a decision as to how I will resolve it, overcome my denial and the reasons for the denial.” Again, he told me how much he loved me and wanted me in his life, that I deserved a life free of pain and despair and craziness, was so very deserving. And then told me to expect to hear from him again. “I want us to communicate, to learn from each other, to share the love we both have for each other in a productive, happy, undisguised way. I want you to be whole and happy and giggly and complete. It took guts for you to enlighten me, and again, I say thanks for caring enough about me to be honest. Much love, Pop.” I felt that he had just given me soul-healing balm.

  A week later, he sent another card telling me how much he loved me and to please stay in touch. We went several months with exchanged phone calls, no sign of involvement from Mom. And then in July I received a letter that I hadn’t been prepared for. It was from Mom, and it was an attempt at mending our relationship, the first attempt in thirty-eight years. She told me how much she loved me and would do anything to erase the pain she caused me. Told me what a beautiful job I’d done with my life. She asked me to forgive her, “not for my sake, but for you. I know what it is like to go through life harboring resentments and anger toward people and it’s not an enriching place to be.” She knew what a deeply caring person I was and how important family was to me. She promised me if I trusted her enough to open up, I would find the risk worth it. “If you aren’t able to—know that I love you with all the pieces of my heart and will continue to no matter what. Love forever, Mom.”

  The letter showed no sign that she acknowledged on any level the lifetime of abuse she had inflicted on my sisters and me. My response was quick and curt. I suggested she show some sign of respect for the amount of damage she had done and acknowledge it was serious. That would be a starting point.

  I don’t know why I expected that just because I had become firmer in my resolve, she would suddenly admit to her abuse. But I knew her well enough to know this wasn’t about us. This was an attempt to maintain her relationships with other family members, most of all Dad—thus the “I know how important family is to you.” She had probably shown Dad the letter before she mailed it.

  But I had my integrity and I had my strength, and because of it, I stopped worrying about what was no longer in my control.

  We were approaching late summer. The Blue Ridge Mountains were lush with deep greens and blues, the humidity was beginning to lift, the crickets were at full range, and the Potomac River was perfect swimming temperature. We were now well settled into our community in Shepherdstown. We had helped found a parenting cooperative that organized family and kids’ activities across the week. My son and daughter were now four and five, their minds bursting with little-person questions, and they were picking up knowledge as fast as we could feed it to them, learning skills, becoming more self-sufficient. We acquired pets—cats, dogs, rabbits, green anoles, frogs, a hamster—the menagerie kept growing. We cooked together. We spent time on the weekends as a family biking, camping, canoeing, exploring Wild and Wonderful West Virginia. Participated in the town’s Easter parade, attended weekly Celtic music sessions, took part in one of Shepherd University’s musicals as a family. In short, it was the parenting-family dream Thomas and I had hoped to build together when we left England.

  I was feeling great, not quite the version of myself I had been in the past, anxious that it might fall once again, but I felt safe in saying that I was fully back on my feet.

  Dr. H and I agreed we had done great work. He wasn’t the type to hang on to patients longer than needed, and I wasn’t the type of patient to hang on. And I had never gotten comfortable with the dent it was making in our finances, especially since I wasn’t yet bringing in money. He referred me to another psychiatrist who was more up to date on pharmacology than he was. But he assured me he’d be available if I needed him in the future.

  I began networking again with old contacts in D.C. to look for a job. Thomas obtained a real estate license and bought our small town’s local newspaper with a couple of other dads who had also downsized their careers to focus on raising family. They began publishing long-form pieces that investigated regional stories. By October, my breakdown was far enough in the past that it could be consigned to memory.

  And that’s when the sniper attacks in the Washington area began.

  In Which I Sense an Imaginary Creature

  Shepherdstown, 2002—In early October, just as the leaves on the trees were turning their fiery autumnal color, John Allen Muhammad and his accomplice, Lee Boyd Malvo, began shooting members of the public. By the time it was over they had killed ten people, and wounded three, in an area less than fifty miles from our house.

  The last week they were on the run, it was rumored they were in our area. The playground at our local elementary school went on lockdown. I began checking car windows, checking out every corner. Moved all activities with the kids indoors. I was terrified to stop at gas stations. It was where most of the victims had been targeted.

  And then, finally, on October 24, 2002, after almost a month of Washington under siege, they arrested Muhammad and Malvo at a rest stop on I-70, twenty miles from our home, a rest stop Thomas had driven by that morning.

  A few hours later, I climbed into the passenger seat of our old Jeep Cherokee, reached for my safety belt, and sensed his presence in the back seat. I looked at Thomas, who was putting the key in the ignition, and heard myself say in a deadpan tone, “He’s in the back.”

  “Who?” My husband asked, as if waiting for a punch line. Talk of imaginary creatures wasn’t all that unusual in our family.

  “Just drive.” I was determined to appear calm.

  “Deb?” I noticed my husband looking slightly concerned now.

  “Ah-hm.” I looked at Thomas, hoping that if I acted as if I hadn’t said anything, he would too. It worked. He pushed the stick into drive, and we pulled out. To my relief, he didn’t mention it again, and soon we were in Home Depot looking at floor-sanding machines.

  The feeling that Mr. K might be in the back seat was an anxiety I had lived with my entire adult life. I had learned to overcome it, as I had many of my fears. And the internal conversation wasn’t exceptional either. It was typical of the self-coaching I did regularly—only this time I had spoken out loud, as if my inner thoughts were on high-volume speaker. I felt oddly detached from the whole thing, and was happy to remain that way.

  Unfortunately, that’s not how the shadows in my mind were interested in playing. The problem was that the ghost of Mr. K began to make more frequent appearances. At first he returned in my night terrors. Then he’d be there before I fell asleep. And then I’d feel him in other rooms in the house. When I turned a corner, he would have just stepped behind the door. He was getting more and more daring.

  A week later, I was still struggling to maintain my equilibrium, using all the tricks and tactics I had learned over the years, but my anxiety levels were making sleep difficult, and my reserve
s were running down. I couldn’t get Mr. K out of my mind. One night when I was lying awake hours after we had gone to bed, Thomas touched my arm.

  “Are you okay? What’s going on . . .”

  I immediately broke into sobs. He tried to console me. I realized there was no way I could continue to go on pretending things were normal. It was too terrifying. So I told him I felt like I was hallucinating, that I was sensing Mr. K so strongly I could swear he was in the house.

  “Who’s Mr. K?” Thomas asked.

  “The guy,” I said, thinking it was obvious.

  “What guy?”

  “The man who kidnapped me,” I said. I had never resolved the issue of how to address my perpetrator, my offender. No one had ever told me his name. And I never asked.

  It might seem odd that after five years of courtship and nine years of marriage, my husband and I had never had one purposeful conversation about the crime, but it was for the same reason, until Dr. H, I never thought to tell the doctors that I had been the victim of a significant violent crime. It felt counter to my survival instinct to dredge up old trauma.

  Thomas pointed out that there was good reason for these memories to be surfacing, given the terror we had all just lived through. He could see I was having a difficult time talking about it. He suggested that maybe I should write down what was going on. Perhaps that might give me a sense of control over my thoughts.

  “Like a bedtime story?”

  Thomas said he was relieved to hear my humor returning.

  In Which I Put a Narrative to the Trauma

  Shepherdstown, 2002—It took several hours of staring at a blank page to finally start pressing pen to paper. I saw the trail of ink, the fragments began to join into sentences. I wondered why the act of writing felt so foreign. I had never tried to inhabit my inner mind through pen and paper when I was experiencing this degree of pain. How could these words possibly represent a memory when the act of articulating them felt so unreal? I felt no confidence that what I was writing was fact—it came from such a deep foreign part inside me, from the realm of my soul. I felt the sting of thrill and terror simultaneously. I knew it was truth. But not yet fact.