The Home I Know: Liberty
Chapter 12
Thank you for your interest in the section of my memoir below. If your email server clips the message, then you can read the full post on Substack. You can also listen to the post by clicking the audio button at the top of this page. When needed, visit the Bibliography and Support Resources. This post mentions incest abuse. If you’re seeking resources, head over to Incest AWARE or Sibling Sexual Trauma.
“In this climate of profoundly disrupted relationships the child faces a formidable developmental task. She must find a way to form primary attachments to caretakers who are either dangerous or, from her perspective, negligent. She must find a way to develop a sense of basic trust and safety with caretakers who are untrustworthy and unsafe. She must develop a sense of self in relation to others who are helpless, uncaring or cruel. She must develop a capacity for bodily self-regulation in an environment in which her body is at the disposal of others’ needs, as well as a capacity for self-soothing in an environment without solace. She must develop the capacity for initiative in an environment which demands that she bring her will into complete conformity with that of her abuser. And ultimately, she must develop a capacity for intimacy out of an environment where all intimate relationships are corrupt, and an identity out of an environment which defines her as a whore and a slave.”1
~ Judith Herman, MD
~ ~ ~
In my studies, I learned that before Eve another woman came to be created equally from the earth with Adam. Her name was Lillith, which means, “Intelligence.”2 Adam said, “Lie beneath me!” and she replied, “You lie beneath me!” Adam raped her when she refused his demand of superiority, so Lillith called to God by name, a thing no human was supposed to do. Then she grew wings, transubstantiated herself into an owl, fled the Garden of Eden, and was last seen hovering over the sea.
Following her departure, the men who penned Lillith’s story turned her into a monster. A demon. A rapist. A manipulator of misbehaved children. Time and time again, Lillith is said to have inspired subversion in previously subservient women and to be the cause of still-born births in the wombs of pregnant persons. Or she was simply forgotten, her story erased. Arguably, this has been one of the most successful smear campaigns of a woman who chose to set herself free throughout mythological history.
Then came Eve, but even her creation story could be interpreted so very differently than it has traditionally been told. Feminist theologian Phyllis Tribble reads the myth of Eve and Adam as poetry. In Genesis 23, Yahweh, “I am,” created “`adham” — a Hebrew noun that means “earth creature” — from the ground. Then the same God took a part of the clay that made “`adham” to mold Eve — which means “to breathe life into.” The author of Genesis 2 introduces gender for the first time at the end of the story after Yahweh makes two earth creatures out of one. Only then does Yahweh refer to woman, or “`ishshah” in Hebrew, and man, or “`ish.”4
Some say that Lillith returned to the Garden of Eden in the form of a snake. Sneakily, she slithered back through the gates she had once flown away from, between the greens that sprouted out from the ground, and up the Tree of Knowledge: the only one that Eve was told she could not eat from lest she die. When Eve arrived, the serpent whispered into her ear:
“‘You will not die, for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.’ So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food and that it was a delight to the eyes and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate [...].”5
Eve too, due to Lillith’s return, learned the truth and set herself free. The liberated became the liberator. Eve went East to live between the rivers. In response, the men who penned Eve’s story blamed her for banishing humanity from patriarchal paradise, and for the inequitable powers of the patriarchy, and for the difficulty by which the earth would provide sustenance, and for the pain that birthing persons would know during procreation. God said that from the earth humans came and to the earth they must return. Death.
So Lillith liberated herself, then Eve. Now, it seemed that they were both inviting me to set myself free.
But how would I free myself from family? The foundation of my identity, economy, and social standing? The most sacred circle in humanity according to my family’s Catholic ideology?
I needed time, I needed space to process the complexities of my memories, this new incested identity, these chaotic currents of feelings that crashed against all parts of me. The only person I still spoke to regularly at this point was my mother, so I called her. My body shook as it anticipated her answering the phone — one ring, two rings, three rings.
“Hi, my beautiful daughter,” she greeted me.
“Hi,” tears began to well up in my eyes.
“How are you?” She continued.
“I’m just doing okay,” I replied.
“What’s the matter? I’ve been worried.”
“I just need some space. A lot’s going on right now, and I’d like time to figure it out. Do you mind not reaching out for a few weeks?”
“Well, I want to be there for you. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“No, I’m not ready. But I’ll tell you when I am. Until then, can you please respect my boundaries?”
“Of course,” she confirmed.
I found a new therapist who lived closer by. Instantly, she validated my memories and began to teach me about the, “The Incest Family.” Incest abuse happens in families of all racial, ethnic, cultural, and class demographics. However, research suggests that incest families differentiate from non-incest families in a few ways:
“The incest family’s dysfunctional patterns that seemed to support and maintain the incestuous behavior were a rigid family belief system, a dysfunctional parental coalition, parental neglect and emotional unavailability, and the inability to nurture autonomy in family members.”6
According to the little research available, approximately one in five children will be sexually abused.7 Of reported cases, over 30% of those were perpetrated by a family member.8 Child-on-child abuse (COCSA), especially Sibling Sexual Trauma and Abuse (SSTA) is estimated to occur just as frequently, if not more so, than adult-on-child abuse.9 I wasn’t alone in this pain, which made me feel both relieved and uneasy.
Within just a few days of asking for space from my family, the flooding of contact came. From my mother, my brothers, my grandparents, my mother’s friend, my mothers friend’s child. The calls, emails, and social media messages kept pinging my voicemails, inboxes, and desktop notifications. My family reminded me what I owed them and how separation was a sin.
“God wants the family to stay together at all costs!” They said.
Eventually, their messages became less questioning and more threatening. So, I changed my number. I blocked my family’s emails. I left all social platforms. I needed my once comfortable public life to become very private, very fast. It was all so confusing, but I had to keep on living.
~ ~ ~
My graduate school asked me to lead a trip to El Salvador with a number of the professors. So with new people, I retraced my footsteps back to the land called “The Savior.” I took the redeye, landed at the airport, breathed in the tropical air, gazed at the fullness of the clouds, and once again felt the sun on my freckled face. Still seeking to find that same sense of salvation that had brought me here a few years before.
On our way to the UCA, we stopped by the gravesite of the four churchwomen from the US who had been raped then murdered during the Civil War: Maryknoll Sisters Maura Clarke and Ita Ford, Ursuline Sister Dorothy Kazel, and lay missionary Jean Donovan.10 This place became a memorial mound where faithful Catholics and activists visited to grieve these women’s fatalities.
I went to the grass to sit by the gravesites of these four women and quickly realized that survival is not a privilege granted to all those who experience sexual abuse. The churchwomen were raped and murdered; I was raped and lived. A half-life was better than no life at all. For the first time, I understood that although the suffering of survival felt so heavy, it was still an opportunity. I left the land feeling just a little bit lighter.
I am an incest survivor.
I returned back to Berkeley knowing now that I needed to figure out how to better hold and manage the costs of survival. The trust fund had been spent. The amount in my bank account dwindled because my 10 hours a week student employment at my graduate school couldn’t cover the expenses of rent, groceries, and therapy. I had no idea where I would find the energy to manage one more thing between the memories, the grief, the school assignments, the work study hours, and my need for more and more sleep.
But survival needs continued to override the fatigue. So I pulled myself out of bed, created a profile on an online babysitting app, and prayed I would be connected to a safe family quickly. Eventually, I received a message from Charlotte.
“Hi Anne,” her email began. “We have three children under the age of 10 and one on the way. We live just up the street from your school and are looking for childcare. Would you be interested in interviewing?” I wrote back feeling a bit desperate, “Yes! I would love to meet you.”
I showed up at Charlotte’s large wooden door a few days later and knocked. She answered in a flowy, pink shirt with tassels hanging from the neck. Luna, the youngest, came running down the aisle in a bright turquoise tutu with a blue striped shirt. Winter followed in a sleek, green, cotton dress with playing cards in her hand. Sienna, the oldest, was with the neighbors.
“Welcome,” Charlotte invited me in.
I stepped through the doorway and felt a strange sense of belonging. I slipped off my shoes per their request and felt my feet touch the oiled wooden floors, absorbing the grace of this family. Floor to ceiling bookshelves caught my eye, while handmade fairylands rested in the corner waiting to be explored. Joshua, Charlotte’s husband, sat in the living room in an outfit of all pastels — dress pants, a collared shirt, and a vest. We talked. Or, at least we tried. The girls had stronger voices.
Instantly, I fell in love. Apparently, it was mutual. I was hired the next day and became the newest extension of their family. As we got to know each other, eventually I disclosed to them my history of incest abuse and present recovery process. Quickly, they shared with me that the issue of incest abuse was a far too familiar reality in the generational pasts of their family too. They had chosen to break the cycle and now modeled how to do so. Charlotte showed me a way to be an empowered woman and caregiver, while Joshua was particularly sensitive to my mental health needs.
“I’m having a hard day,” I said. “The memories are really overwhelming and I can’t process everything. But it’s okay, I can manage.” I concluded to ensure he wouldn’t worry.
“It’s not okay, Anne,” he gently responded. “You don’t have to do that here. You don’t have to pretend to be okay when you’re not.”
I felt unworthy of this amount of love and care. The pieces of me that kept myself safe by being independent and isolated wished for me to stop engaging in this loving system of support. I belonged and I didn’t. I was hired to be a caregiver, when I needed someone to care for me. I was their friend and their employee, when what I really needed was my own safe family. I was trying to survive my day-to-day life, while also comprehending why my father would abuse his own daughter. It was exhausting.
~ ~ ~
My master’s program neared its end. I had interviewed at a nearby high school to be a religious studies teacher and campus minister. I feared receiving the opportunity just as much as being rejected from it. If the school said no, I had no idea where else I would go. I didn’t feel confident in any other subjects for a career change and needed a high paying salaried role to afford to live in the SF Bay Area near my small support system, while building a life from scratch, and paying for my healing process out-of-pocket. If the school said yes, then I would have to wrestle with my Catholic identity on the classroom floor, teaching young girls how to hold the tension of being a Catholic and a Feminist simultaneously.
A few days later, a friend and I went to the pool to swim and release my nervous system of all the excess energy. I pulled myself through the water as my brain, body, and being looped between the fears of the past, present, and future simultaneously. I lifted myself out of the water, walked to the women’s locker room, removed my suit, and showered off. My friend followed. We were both naked now. My phone rang from an unknown number. I answered, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Hi, Anne! Do you have a minute to talk?” It was the hiring manager from the high school. Technically, this wasn’t a great time in the hollow and echoing chamber of a public women’s locker room, while I was naked and vulnerable.
“Yes, this is a great time!” I lied, smiling big to make my voice sound more enthusiastic.
“We loved your interview and your teaching presentation. The students gave you excellent feedback.” I was waiting for the...but…
“So, we’d love to offer you the job!”
Immediately, I started jumping up and down, my breasts out, bouncing all around. My friend gave me an inquisitive stare, eyebrows raised, and a curious thumbs up. I lifted the thumb on my left hand back to communicate the yes part of me longed for. I hung up the phone and put it down, then melted into the floor sobbing. My friend wrapped her naked body around my body in a congratulatory embrace. I showered off the chlorine and the fear of the future for one moment and felt relief.
I could support myself now. I could stay away from home. I could be financially independent from my father. I had a job. I would no longer be codependent on my abusers.
Graduation day represented the ending of one life and the beginning of the next. A ritualistic walk down a new aisle where I would be safe and celebrated. I dressed in the required black gown and square cap with a maroon shawl wrapped around my shoulders. Then, a friend came running up to me frantically, “Anne, your mother is here.”
My school community knew what I was going through and did their best to hold the complexity of the uncovering of repressed memories of incest that required complete space from family.
“What?!” My heart sank immediately, as my body tried to decide if I should fight, freeze, flee, or fawn as a response.
How did she even find out about the event?
She wouldn’t have come alone.
Is my father here too?
What should I do?
My body trembled, as I walked down the aisle surrounded by the faculty and families of other students. My eyes scanned for her in the audience, but I couldn’t find her. After the celebration, I walked away ready to go to dinner to celebrate with a friend. Then, I saw her approaching me. I froze. I didn’t see my father.
“What are you doing here?” I asked gently as she put her arms around me.
“I wanted to see you,” she responded sadly.
“Okay.” I didn’t know what else to say, I was so conditioned to protect her from pain.
She handed me an envelope. I put it in my pocket and walked away. After dinner, I opened the card and a check for $500 fell to the floor. Even though I needed the money desperatley, I ripped it up understanding well enough by now that my family never gave anything for free.
During the summer months, I worked for Charlotte’s family to make just enough money to cover rent and groceries. I kept driving Green Bean down south to explore places to live near my new employer. Any official rental property wanted a good credit check, a large security deposit, and the first month’s rent, none of which I could provide. I cried in my car on the drive back to Berkeley, as time quickly sped by with no ideas to where I might reside.
Annie, it’s going to be okay.
I heard that same voice from within placate me. When I returned home, I redirected my search to Craigslist, which I had avoided due to fear of being hurt when showing up alone as a woman to someone’s home. Then I saw it. Pictures of a beautiful little cottage with wainscoting and sand tan walls, a tiny kitchen, golden-hued wooden floors, and windows that overlooked the landlord’s garden — a slice of paradise just for me to recover. The cottage was 20 minutes driving distance from my new school.
The price listed was beyond my budget, but it was beautiful and felt safe both which inspired me to reach out to the landlady and say hello. We met. While shaking, I explained to her my situation, the space from family, the lack of credit, the need to create a payment plan until I could afford the first month’s rent and the security deposit, as well as meet my basic needs. Surprisingly, she agreed.
“You’re meant to be here,” she said to me lovingly. “I can feel it.”
For the last time, I stuffed my Santa Fe with everything I owned to move to my first chosen home outside of school. Once I paid my landlord the security deposit and got caught up with rent, I went car shopping. I bought my first car, then I left Green Bean, still my father’s property, on a side of the street near my old school in Berkeley for my parents to pick up and drive back to Bunya St.
Herman, Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence--From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror.
Plaskow, In Four Centuries of Jewish Women’s Spirituality: A Sourcebook.
Genesis 2: 1-25 (NRSV).
Genesis 2: 24 (NRSV).
Genesis 3:1-6 (NRSV).
Madonna PG, Van Scoyk S, Jones DP, “Family interactions within incest and nonincest families.”
Fang, X., Ren, J., Kang, J. et al. A systematic review of the global and regional estimates of the prevalence of sexual violence against children.
Finkelhor, “Characteristics of crimes against juveniles. Durham, NH: Crimes against Children Research Center.”
Bertele, N., & Talmon. “Sibling Sexual Abuse: A Review of Empirical Studies in the Field. Trauma, Violence, & Abuse.”
Markey, A Radical Faith: The Assassination of Sister Maura.