to be in there, putting our things away at the same time. Innocent, right? I don’t know how mama find out, or what she thought happened, but that afternoon she tells me “I know you were in the closet with a boy. If I find out you were in there doing something nasty I’m going to beat between your legs. Your teacher is going to ask you why are you walking funny, and you’re going to say, because my mama beat me between the legs.””
“You were just a preschooler, what the hell could she possibly think you were doing? Better yet, why would she think you were doing it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember doing anything, but she was always accusing me of being nasty or doing something nasty. I remember getting ready for my first sleep over and she tells me “If Jasmine’s mom tells me you were over the doing something nasty, I’m going to beat your ass.” I was thinking, what nasty thing could we do over there.”
“Do you believe there is a chance your mother knew what was going on between you and Thing.”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember her ever saying anything about it.”
“Do you remember any other instances like this?”
“Just one. I was using the bathroom, at that time we were living with my aunt and her six kids.”
“Is this aunt Thing’s mom?”
“Yes. I was using the bathroom and one of my aunt’s male friends walked in on me. He apologized and walked out. I can’t remember why, but a few minutes later, my mom knocked on the door. I remember thinking what should I do with my hands, so I just figured it would be best to put them on my lap. Then I told her to come in. She did, and saw where my hands were. “You’re in here playing between your legs.” No, I’m not, I said back. “Yes, you are. That’s probably what you were doing when that man walked in here on you.” I kept trying to tell her I wasn’t, but she wouldn’t believe. I got tired of arguing with her and just told her what she wanted to hear. “Get your nasty ass in that room, I’ll be in there with the belt.””
“Your mom didn’t know how to teach you about sexuality. That’s the only way I can think of to explain her actions.”
“Maybe, or maybe I’m just a weak person. I mean these memories come back to me and suddenly I hate her. Her words stuck with me, they beat me down. In a way you are right though. I think about when I first started to like boys, she made me feel like I was wrong, or being nasty.”
“So she never talked to you about liking boys or told you that it was a completely normal part of growing up?”
“No. She just told me it wasn’t good for me to be alone with a boy. I wasn’t until I was in high school did she start pushing me to or asking me if I liked a boy. By then it was too late.”
“I understand now. You want intimacy, but you are also afraid of and disgusted by it. The sexual abuse combined with your mother’s action warped your sense of intimacy and sex.”
“So I can’t be fixed.”
“I wouldn’t say that, but you do have a lot to work through, and I’m here to help.”
“Do you think anybody will ever love me?”
“I do, but he will have to be a strong and persistent man, because you will not be easy to love. You’ll keep him at arm’s length until you are sure he won’t leave or hurt you.”
That wasn’t the best answer, but it wasn’t the worst answer either. “What is your relationship like with your mother now?”
“Ok, I guess. We talk every day. Its borderline annoying.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s always the same damn conversation. “What took you so long to call?” “You must have a boy in the house with you.” It’s like she really doesn’t realize how screwed up I am.”
“Do you think you can have an honest conversation with your mother? Maybe asks her about some of the things you have told me about?”
“No.”
6
“Cassandra, what’s wrong? You’re not yourself today.”
“I feel like an idiot for being here. There are people out there who have had it way worse than me. Yet, here I am crying and whining about my problems. I feel like I should suck it up and just deal with it.”
“Cassandra you are dealing with it. Just because someone may be suffering a little more than you, doesn’t mean what you are going through doesn’t count.” That made sense, but it didn’t make me feel better. “Can we talk about your father?”
“What about him?”
“We talked in depth about your mother last session, and she is usually mentioned in all our sessions, but you never mention your father.”
“There is not much to tell, he’s an asshole, but I love him.”
“You don’t seem to blame him for what Thing did to you, why is that?”
“He wasn’t around, he’s my stepfather. My sperm donor can kick rocks.”
“Do you know anything about your real father?”
“Growing up, my mom told me my younger sister’s dad was all of our father, that was a lie. I guess she was ashamed to admit she had three kids by three different men. Next she tells me I have two fathers. What she meant by that is, my birth father married another woman, and the man whose last name I have just disappeared.”
“You hate her for that?”
“No, I mean, I’m mad she waited so long to tell me the truth.”
“Did you ever find your birth father?”
“About seven years ago. The first words out of his mouth were “what took you so long to find me?” I felt like we would finally be able to have a relationship. Then he stopped answering my phone calls. When he finally did answer, he told me he had no idea who I was. The thing about it, that hurt the most, is the fact that he raised two kids that weren’t even his. I ask myself all the time, why wasn’t I good enough?”
“And your step-dad?”
“He loves us. He treats us just like he does his own biological kids. That begs the question why do I care so much about my sperm donor’s rejection. I have a father who cares about me, yet I still think about the one who doesn’t.”
“It’s not good to hold all of this in. It is ok to express your feelings. You can’t go through life holding everything in.”
“That’s not easy for me. I don’t want to say anything that is going to start a confrontation or hurt someone’s feeling. I have this need for everyone to like me.”
“Not everyone is going to like you. Not everyone is going to be your friend. You can be the nicest, friendliest person around, and someone still won’t like you.”
“Then why do I feel that way? Why do I need everyone to like me?”
“Low self-esteem. So instead of being who you are, you become who you think everyone wants you to be. You say what you think they want you to say.”
I thought about just how true that was. One time when Thing was molesting me, it asked me “do you like boys?” I gave the answer I thought it wanted, I shook my head no. “You like girls?” By the sound of Thing’s voice that was the wrong answer, so again I shook my head no.
“What are you thinking about over there?”
“I was just thinking I wish I was more like you. You are so strong and so confident. I wish I had those traits.
“I grew up the darkest person, in a family with a huge complexion complex. I had to be strong to deal with all the insults. My brothers nicknamed me skillet. I had to find the beauty within myself, or they would have won, that’s how I became confident.”
“So, Thing won, that’s why I’m here. Years later and Thing is still tormenting me.”
She came over and sat next to me. This time, I didn’t mind. “No, you’re here because you won. The only way Thing wins, is if you would’ve continued to let what it did eat you alive. You have more strength than you give yourself credit for.”
“Thank you.”
“Where do you see yourself in five years?” She put a little more cheer in her voice.
“You mean besides still in therapy?”
She laughed. “Yes, besides still in therapy.”
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“I don’t know. Sometimes I hard for me to picture where I’ll be a few days from now. If I could get to the point where I’m not working the same dead end job and finally happy with myself, I think I’ll be satisfied.”
“Cassandra, if you believe you’ll get to that point, then you will.”
“It’s weird you know even when I’m happy, in the back of my mind, I’m not really happy. Kind of like I’m wearing a mask.”
“You don’t have to be happy every second of every day.”
“True, but I would like to know what it is like to be genuinely happy. If only for one day. I’ll take that and run with it.”
7
Things haven’t been well since our last session. The dreams were back in full force, even more vivid. This session, Zakiyyah doesn’t want me to tell her about the dream, instead she wants me to write it down. It’s hard for me to hold the pen steady. How would I feel about seeing the dreams in words? Zakiyyah sat across the room at her desk. She was typing on her computer. “Take your time, and let me know when you are done,” she says. She wants me to write everything, no detail is too small. I press the pen against the paper and begin to write.
I’m standing outside the apartment door. I know what’s on the other side of the door, and I’m not afraid. I knock on the door three times. There is no turning back from what I’m about to do. “Who is it?” I don’t respond. Thing must’ve looked out the peep hole, the next thing I hear is the door unlocking.
Thing looks at me and smiles. Then turns and walks into the apartment, I follow. Thing rubs its hand across my chest. The feel of