I know she lied but I guess when you use the word “lie” out loud it sounds and lands much differently from when its heard inside. My mother lied. My abusers lied. In my head it lands with a soft but haunting thud. My mother lied. My abusers lied. Out loud it nearly knocks me off my feet. For the first time ever someone told me in those words, “She lied to you.” I mean I know she did but to say it out loud is to make it all her fault and take the blame off of me. Truthfully, I still blame myself for some things but what is more, I still feel bad inside and I still am willing to believe on some levels that this abuse story I tell can’t really be true. To say she lied means I am believed. To believe me is to confirm that I am a good liar and can convince good and honest people to turn against the mother. It is so confusing. In my head it’s a secret but out loud it’s a conspiracy to bring the woman that gave birth to me down in a ball of slanderous flames.
Every September for as long as I can remember we went to my grandfather’s old orphanage. It’s a historical place and a beautiful one too. I have very fond memories of it especially hanging by the duck pond in paddle boats or laying beside geese gazing at the starry sky. I have amazing memories from that place. How I got there isn’t so amazing, it’s pathetic and typical of my mother’s behaviors. There were constant threats of sending my sister and myself away because we were both bad and liars. Man, lying wasn’t taken lightly. We didn’t even have to lie to be blamed for it though and when she did blame us there was hell to pay. She’d pull up to the gates of the children’s version of jail for girls and say she was going to leave us. I’d talk her down, we’d go home until the next time. I never wanted to go there, ever but when she threatened to leave us at the orphanage, the one she took us to visit every September 20th I hoped beyond anything she’d finally leave us. I wanted to be there. By the time I was about 15 I knew a lot of the girls. I knew some of the boys too. We got along well, we talked even when I was back at home with her. We passed letters back and forth and I hoped, I hoped beyond anything she’d send us there.
The mother said in a little silver box she kept in the closet was a set of documents that only needed her signature. The people from the home would then come and get us and we couldn’t come back to her until we learned how to act. The box was never opened, it sat dented in the corner of her closet. The closet was right beside her bed, the same bed where we ate dinner, did home work, played games, got beaten and more. Those papers were so close, a little piece of heaven and safety so close. All she had to do was sign on the line she said, just sign. I wanted to go. She took us there and we could see for ourselves that we weren’t going to be raped or starved or beaten. We knew the kids and they were not harmed. It was a good place, a safe place, a home where my grandfather grew up and many other children grew up. So why wouldn’t she finally get tired and send us there? It was because the papers didn’t exist. They didn’t exist. She lied. She dangled a carrot in front of my face. She offered me hope that didn’t exist. That lie being called such out loud in the open …. it’s amazing how much fear was in that house and how much guilt I still carry with me. I wanted to tell Dr. D today, don’t call my mother a liar. But why not? I could hear it in my head, because I’m the liar. None of what I’ve said is true. When you believe me you prove that I’m bad. I’m a good liar. I can make you believe me. It’s so confusing. It’s just so confusing.
J of A
A Conditioned Liar-Friday, September 19, 2008-11:59PM EST
I am so often stunned by your honesty.
Yeah. That’s complicated in one way, not so much in another.
What happened to you can’t be made right. I think that’s what drives our impulse sometimes to “Make up slanderous stories” or whatever. We try to make it right. Maybe we think that there’s no other way we would be believed. Or we haven’t been believed. Or we’re not so sure what happened because we were so young and terrified. We don’t really know.
I did not have access to childhood memories until very recently. I am sure that what I remember happened but I also know that memory is a very funny thing. I’ll never have all the pieces. However in respect to my mother lying I can see that I was right about that because she’s still doing it today. Even though I don’t see her any more she still lies to others and tries to play games with them, and with me through them. The fact that her behavior is consistent after all these years tells me that in fact most of what I believe about her is true. I don’t have to excavate every detail about her to know she’s a manipulative liar.
I don’t know if that makes sense at all. I guess what I’m saying is that it is never going to be about what “really happened” because memory is funny and in some ways there’s no way for us to know. What it’s about is the kind of person we want to be now, and if we lie, why do we do it and can we get our needs met in a better kind of way. You have the right to say that you feel you were lied to without having to come up with details about it. I think it is OK too to understand when we ourselves have a problem with lying instead of being honest like we like to be. That’s how it changes, I think.
That was a very helpful comment Wily, it really was.
My most vivid memories are from my early adult years and they are right in line with the bits and pieces I have from childhood years. I didn’t leave that situation until I was 20 years old. Right up until the day I left she was still abusive. The very day I left she asked for sex. I was 20 years old. She said do it or get out. I left. I think sometimes what she did is so crazy that I think no one will ever believe it but ya know what? No one has ever doubted me but me …..and her. I’ve never had anyone doubt my story. I think I’m just use to being called a liar.
I think one of the worst things about abuse, especially long-term abuse, is that reality becomes distorted. I told so many stories and lies. So many cover-ups. I spent so much time trying to remember which aunt knew which version of events. Which family member knew what. I couldn’t keep things straight. Even now I have trouble remembering sometimes what is reality and what is a lie. Sometimes I feel like my entire life is a lie and I’m just waiting to wake up to the truth.
We were all made to be liars and be terrified of telling the truth. If we told the truth, it meant our abusers would get into trouble if someone believed us. The truth wasn’t acceptable in the world of abuse. And I recall being punished severely for not even lies. Or I’d be labeled as a liar when I knew what I said was true. All those double messages at the extremes. No child can handle that emotionally, mentally. That intensity needs an outlet. So we have an alter holding the abuser “You’re a liar. No one will ever believe you. I’ll (fill in the blank) if you ever tell.”. And we have an alter holding the opposite messages of how important it is to be truthful and to be a “good person”. We have an internal battle going on of right and wrong while consciously we try to make a decision. Children and adults often use the cartoon example of describing an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other shoulder. It’s much more complex for survivors though.
Very powerful post Austin. Hearing our truth in the line of a movie or reading it in a story can knock the wind out of our sails too. It comes flying at us and challenges our internal belief system–the one we were made to believe as opposed to the one we would have consciously chosen.