Elizabeth experienced what she thought was depression over a period of many years. Then she saw a life coach therapist who thought childhood sexual abuse would explain her ongoing depression. The therapist life coach got her medicated then helped her "recover" what she called "repressed memories" of abuse by her mother. The adamant denial of her parents was taken as proof of their guilt. She cut off her family and her true friends (who could not agree to what they knew to be a lie) and forced her children into isolation from cousins, uncles, aunts and grandparents. Five years later she decided she was never getting cured of depression and quit her therapist. Over time, away from her therapist and off the medication she came to realize that none of the recovered repressed memories were real.
My Mother Abused Me, Didn’t She?
My name is Elizabeth Godley
I was 30, picking up the pieces after a failed relationship. Even though I had friends and a job, my life felt empty. I felt guilty, unlovable and alone in the world. In the first visit to the therapist she arranged for me to take antidepressants (the healthcare made it free). On my second visit to a new therapist, in the middle of a conversation about my troubles, she shattered my composure with an unexpected question. "Elizabeth, do you think you might have been sexually abused by your mother?" My reaction was immediate and devastating. I was flooded with nausea. I felt lightheaded and breathless. Was this the reason I’d made so many poor decisions in life and sought comfort for the debilitating depression that plagued me?
My new therapist, a former nurse with a Ph.D. in psychology, was beginning to forge a reputation for treating incest survivors, an emerging issue at the time. She was struck by the way I responded to her question about my mother. Convinced we were on to something, she urged me to remember as much as I could of this traumatic event. In my apartment that evening, I dutifully began to "remember": I was four years old...my mother and I were in the woods near our house, where we often walked, picking huckleberries (my mom taught me the names of all the trees and plants in the lush coastal forest)...we sat down under a tree and my mother forced me to do certain things...
I reported this scene to my therapist. Then, I acted on her suggestion that I write letters to both my parents to vent the rage and pain I felt about my discovery, and to say I didn’t want to see either of them in the foreseeable future -- perhaps ever.
My mother’s response was understandable. She was shocked and frightened by my accusations. She sent me a brief, angry note, letting me know that I should not blame my problems on her. My therapist interpreted her defensiveness as further proof that my mother had abused me.
For the next four years, I had no contact with my mother, and almost none with my father. I believed that my parents were toxic, and my memories of sexual abuse gave me good reason to cut them out of my life. After three years of weekly and twice-weekly therapy sessions, I was beginning to think there was no cure for my depressions. I felt I was wasting time there, and wanted to get on with my life.
The truth dawned slowly, gradually, in a process that intensified after I stopped seeing the therapist. My sense that I had made up my memories of abuse became stronger. I had recently married, but within six months my husband and I began having difficulties. We consulted a counselor, who was concerned about my estrangement from my parents, and who told me I could not resolve problems in my marriage until I came to terms with my family. That made a deep impression on me, and I became more and more certain that my mother had never abused me. But why had I accepted the therapist’s theory so easily?
Certainly, I was desperate for answers -- a drowning woman grasping at anything to keep afloat. On the surface, I appeared to have everything -- a promising career, intelligence, attractive looks -- but I was miserable. My temper was explosive, my relationships with men stormy; I was extremely vulnerable to criticism; my self-esteem was non-existent. At work, I couldn’t get along with my supervisors or my colleagues. So when I was offered an explanation for my depression and problems, I lunged at it. It was easier to blame my mother than to accept responsibility for my unhappiness. Guided by my therapist -- and I believe she meant well -- I began to enjoy my status as a victim; she rewarded me with outpourings of sympathy and commiserations, as well as an entree into a select group of her patients, all incest survivors. I now had an answer to all my questions about myself. I no longer had to think or struggle. Problems at work? With friends? With men? Well, what could I expect? I had been sexually abused. It was almost like joining a cult, with my therapist as guru and me a faithful disciple, the pitiful casualty of a horrendous crime.
The role of victim can be very appealing, as psychologist Carol Tavris points out in The Mismeasure of Women (Simon & Schuster, 1992). Tavris stresses she is not speaking of real incest survivors, and acknowledges as I do) the many thousands of women who have suffered real abuse as children and adults. But she believes sexual abuse "crystallizes many of society’s anxieties, in these insecure times, about the vulnerability of children, the changing roles of women, and the norms of sexuality." Those who feel vulnerable and victimized, and who wish to share in society’s sympathy, are drawn to identify with incest survivors, Tavris suggests. "For some women, the sexual-victim identity is...a lightning rod for the feelings of victimization they have as a result of their status in society at large." When incest was first in the news a decade or so ago, "public horror and outrage focused on the perpetrator" -- usually a man, Tavris writes. Today, though, much of the fury is directed at mothers, who are blamed for failing to protect their daughters, for "enabling" the abuser.
I can relate. By falsely accusing my mother of sexual abuse, I tapped into a dark pit of rage against her; rage that had been repressed for more than 20 years. I grew up under the thumb of authoritarian parents who pushed me to be the perfect daughter. Negative emotions were squelched, painful issues never discussed. Heading the list of taboo subjects was the stillbirth of a baby that happened when I was about four years old. Fifteen years later, that childhood event returned to haunt me. I got pregnant with my first serious boyfriend, and went through a hellish abortion. Even though I was living at home and going to university, I managed to keep the abortion secret from my parents. I tried to ignore my anguish, in vain, just as my parents had tried to ignore the stillbirth long ago. But my guilt, anger and misery festered. By the time I was 38, I was a walking time bomb. My therapist unwittingly lit the fuse.
It wasn’t easy making up with my parents. For help, I turned to a new psychiatrist, a women recommended by my general practitioner. I was on her waiting list for a year while I withdrew from the 2 antidepressants I was taking. The new therapist did not want to see me until after I was off the medication. Finally, with her support, I was able to put to rest my haunting "memories." She asked me if I recalled any molestation as a child, and I recalled two incidents. One occurred in a movie theater; I was about seven, and a man sitting next to me put his hand on my knee. The other occurred when I was 12 or so, at the beach near my aunt’s summer cottage; a man insisted I touch his penis. Both times, having been brought up to do what I was told, I complied. But I never told a soul, thinking I’d done something shameful. My psychiatrist suggested that since these two incidents were clear in my mind, it was unlikely I had repressed other memories of abuse by my mother.
That weight lifted. I did some belated maturing, and learned to recognize my feelings, communicate my needs and clarify my expectations. I began to understand that my depressions were likely caused by guilt and unexpressed anger at my mother, not sexual abuse. Deep down, I felt I’d failed her. Just as important, I felt she’d failed me -- first, because of my sibling’s death (I hated being an only child) and second, because I hadn’t been able to confide in her about the abortion.
Over the past few years, I’ve opened up to my mother, telling her the secret I’d kept all those years, and the change in our relationship has been dramatic. No longer mystified by my moods -- and no longer worried that I blame her -- my mother feels more relaxed when we’re together. Unencumbered by guilt, I now trust that she loves me, even knowing the "worst," the parts I kept hidden. We’ve recaptured some of the closeness we enjoyed when I was a small child.
It’s been a relief to find out I wasn’t the only troubled woman to seize upon sexual abuse as an explanation for everything that was wrong with my life. Hearing about other women with stories like mine, and speaking with mothers, fathers and siblings who have been falsely accused, has helped me understand a very difficult period in my life.
This case (edited) is based on a true story (3/19/16):
http://www.fmsfonline.org/?qmemories=RetractorsOwnStories#jan98Reprinted with permission from Modern Woman, January 1994
NOTE: This retraction is a rare example of integrity and courage. Many live with the false memories their entire lives and rob their children of grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. Losing contact at a time when the children most benefit from that contact.
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ALL Pictures are of life before false memories were recovered.
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