This is the Christmas story I seldom tell, of the time thirty years ago that I spent Christmas in an inpatient treatment facility for female sexual abuse. I was lucky to be in a facility with an outstanding program for women like me, and I credit them with turning my viewpoint from that of a victim to that as a survivor. There’s a big difference between the two.
Christmastime is not the time to have one’s husband (now ex) disclose that he had molested several children in his teens*. Especially when one is a sexual abuse survivor. Especially at Christmas. I spiraled into a depression, my promises to weather anything in my marriage warring with my promise not to stay married to a man who could relapse anytime and harm my young nieces. I was already estranged from my parents at that point; I had no support left except friends many, many miles away.
I had exhausted my long-distance friends with my anger and depression and suicidal ideations**. I had exhausted the crisis hotline worker with numerous calls on numerous sleepless evenings. My mentor/father figure and the crisis worker both urged me to seek inpatient treatment. Finally I listened.
I found a place where I could get treatment, a place called Brattleboro Retreat in Brattleboro, VT, one of two facilities my insurance could cover. I visited my PA to see if she could help me get insurance to cover the visit; she informed me that they wouldn’t pay unless they believed I was either suicidal or psychotic. I wasn’t psychotic, and we weren’t sure if I qualified for suicidal despite ideations to the effect, but she convinced the insurance company that I wasn’t suicidal yet, but I could very well be shortly. Insurance accepted me, and I scheduled my stay for the two weeks I had during Christmas break. This, the intake person at Brattleboro told me, was less than the recommended minimum of three weeks, but I knew I needed to get back to work on time to preserve my dignity.
I took the bus from Oneonta to Brattleboro carrying one suitcase as soon as winter break began. I looked out onto a grey, bleak winter which made me feel more bereft. I felt I had nothing, would not have anything ever again. I vaguely remembered the check-in procedure at the small front office, the mental status exam questions about hearing voices and whether the TV spoke especially to me.
My first impressions of the unit, my two-week home, was that of old wood in need of some refinishing, worn green carpet, in a comfortable stately boarding house in need of a little freshening up. I remember the room with bath I had to myself, the front central desk, and the white paneled doors with security alarms.
From the first day, I experienced Brattleboro as a combination of summer camp and boot camp, with my psyche being remade through stark honesty and challenge, meditation and self-soothing. Brattleboro Retreat’s program could be best described by this metaphor: You’re standing on a rickety floor, an unsafe floor, but it’s the only floor you’ve known. Suddenly, the floor is being torn out from under you plank by plank, and suddenly you find yourself falling, but then there’s a safety net catching you and tools to help build that floor up. But I cried a lot, mourning my lost relationship, feeling overwhelmed with the feelings coming up from my childhood abuse, taking the scorn of my new roommates too personally. I know now that they reacted to my academic language, my talking about recovery but not recovering, and to their own vulnerabilities which they tried to hide with tough talk while I wore mine like a suit.
On Christmas Eve, we played Jenga and Scrabble amongst the tinsel that decorated the windows, in a world of our own, as we were not allowed outside the campus until we’d earned outing privileges. Once or twice a resident acted out, using old broken strategies for dealing with feelings, and we would have group meetings to tell that resident how their actions made us feel as part of the protocol for dealing with destructive behaviors.
On Christmas, I felt lonelier than I ever had in my life, and I spent too much time on the unit’s one phone talking to my friend long-distance. But I journeyed down to the gift shop and bought myself a midnight blue sweatshirt with “Brattleboro” emblazoned across it in collegiate letters and a jar of good-smelling body cream. I rubbed the cream on myself after I soaked for a half-hour in the private tub I was allowed because I was neither an imminent suicide risk nor did I have an eating disorder.
My experience of Brattleboro, looking out the large windows of the common space at the frozen river at night and Christmas lights in the distance, changed my life in ways I am still learning. It taught me how to mourn and let go, how to seek the light, how to see myself as a survivor rather than a victim. I am who I am because of Brattleboro, because of that lonely Christmas.
* It is entirely possible (and believed by several mutual friends) that my ex lied about his history of being an abuser for obscure reasons, but I can only go on what he told me at the time.
** At this point, I was probably also suffering from a rapid-cycling bipolar episode, but I had not been diagnosed yet.
Words Like Me 