My Mother

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My mother was a prominent figure in the sexual assault prevention world, deeply respected in our local community and renowned among first responders and hospitals. She had forged a strong partnership with my elementary school and was slated to visit classrooms to educate children about sexual assault prevention.

Seeing her in the school halls filled me with excitement and pride. I would proudly declare that she was my mother, waving at her with enthusiasm. While I may not have fully comprehended the purpose of her visits to my school, I knew they were related to her work, and I was thrilled to have her presence in my world.

The day finally arrived when my mother and her co-worker were scheduled to visit my class. I was filled with anticipation. As they entered the room, they were introduced to the class, but I couldn't help feeling a pang of disappointment that my mother wasn't introduced as my mom. I longed for that special recognition in the moment. Nevertheless, my mother began her discussion with the class, focusing on the important topic. Though I don't remember all the details, I know she talked about what it was and who to tell if it was occurring.

After the presentation, she and her co-worker positioned themselves at opposite ends of the hall. One by one, the children exited the classroom and approached one of them individually. We were instructed to share any information about sexual assault and molestation and reassured that it was a safe space for discussion. As I prepared to get in line, a small boy whom I considered a friend walked behind me as I was standing and slid his hand between my legs. I jerked with fear and turned to see this boy, look back at me with a huge grin and wink. I was utterly shocked. I couldn't help but wonder if this was supposed to be acceptable. Did he misunderstand the situation? Did I unintentionally do something to make him think this behavior was permissible?

As I got in line, I felt deeply troubled. I had planned on meeting with my mom's co-worker in the hall, and I was going to tell her everything. I was going to confide in her about how my sister had hurt me and how this kid in class had done the same. My heart was pounding, and my palms were sweating. I started to feel the familiar knots in my stomach that I would come to endure my whole life. As I approached the doorway, her coworker looked at me and motioned for me to come to her. But my mother interrupted, saying, "Oh, she just wanted to come talk to me!" as she laughed. It felt like a scene from a horror movie—I was being pulled away from salvation and led back to an evil villain. I stared at her friend and didn't drop eye contact as my mother pulled me away. She hugged me, which was rare, and continued laughing. Tears welled up, and I began to sob. I longed for someone to know what I was going through at home and what my friend had just done to me.

My mother asked me what was wrong, but I knew I couldn't share with her all the reasons I was upset. I was so scared and embarrassed to reveal what my friend had just done to me, but I did it anyway. I blurted it out. She hugged me, and then I was sent back into the room while they called for him to come out. My next memory was seeing my mom’s coworker on her knees holding his shoulder as he heavily cried and denied. I'll never forget the look on his face—mouth open with drool, tears pouring, and snot streaming from his nose. I was surprised he was so upset. Did I misunderstand what happened?

I don't recall what happened after that event. What I do know is that it was never discussed with me again. I continued to attend the same class for the rest of the year and even had to sit at the same table as him. I remember feeling it was wrong. Didn't anyone hear what I said? Didn't they, whoever they were, understand that I should have been protected from him?

Reflecting on these experiences, I now realize that not only was I abused at home, but I was also abused at school. What's more, my mother, this expert in the community, was the person who concealed my abuse. I assume her actions were to save face and prevent others from knowing that her own daughter was abused in her household and even in the classroom she had just lectured in. This is yet another demonstration of my parents being more self-involved than concerned for their children’s well-being. Due to their preoccupation with maintaining a positive community perception, I was left to navigate a world and make sense of continued abuse both in and outside of the home.

I would never come to understand how these experiences and lack of love and support would shape my adult life, leading me down multiple paths of enduring abusive relationships. It would take me over 35 years to realize that I did not love myself or value my needs. Now, I clearly see why I struggled for so long and how two selfish parents fostered a world of pain for their child, despite having the tools as an executive in sexual assault prevention programs and a practicing therapist. While I am often told that parents try their hardest with the tools they have, it is difficult to swallow that my parents advocated for others and left me to suffer in my own misery and confusion.