Childhood sexual abuse revisited in a flash. Raw, descriptive, honest; such is my life. Be forewarned.
I get out of the tub noticing an unusual circular pattern of brownish-black spots the size of coffee grounds in the area where the middle portion of my body had rested. I begin to feel sick, panicky, start to shake and almost sob. I get my glasses, turn on the brightest light, then rush to the drawer for a magnifying glass. I’m back to age ten, Chet.
Do they have bodies? Legs? I’m sick.
Calling my GYN, barely able to speak I cry shakily, “Something’s coming out of me. I don’t know what it is. I have to see my doctor right away!”
She speaks to someone in the office, perhaps my doctor, then asks, “Can you come now?”
“I have to get dressed, but yes. I’ll scape some of it up and bring it,” I respond shakily.
Using a kitchen spatula and a Tupperware container, I scape some of it up, terrified it will get on my hands, snap the lid tight and put it in a paper bag. I quickly down a good dose of Xanax to quell my anxiety which has burst through the stratosphere. I contracted crabs off a toilet seat? It wasn’t from sex, that much I know. Something had crawled up in me and was laying eggs.
The Xanax takes effect as I drive to the city suburbs, and the adrenaline eats up so much of it, I am focused enough to drive safely. The nurse meets me and takes me back to a private area so she can talk to me. I work hard to fight off the nausea…breathe…Remember to breathe…
After explaining to her what I thought it was, she responds kindly, “No, it can’t be that, it looks like dried blood, maybe from fibroids.”
My terror ratchets down a few decibels; fibroids, an infection, or cancer (my thought, not hers), but not bugs. Cultures were taken. A sonogram, internal and external. I still don’t know exactly what’s going on inside of me, but I know it isn’t bugs, with the female egg layer residing internally, ready to spawn thousands of eggs, or rip out of my gut like Sigourney Weaver in Aliens.
To explain my terror, I told my doctor I’d been watching too many Alien movies. I didn’t tell her I had flashed back to my ten year old self. I’d itched for weeks thinking I’d die from some disease. My teenage brother had attacked me over a two year period. And he must have been sexually active with those his own age during that same time to have passed on the infection.
I found them finally, just a little girl all alone, and tweezed as many off as I could, putting them in a cup of hot water. Fifty years later I’m brought back there again, feeling the terror, horror, and utter betrayal, along with fears of an ultimate, immediate, petrifying death. It takes a few days to calm down from such retraumatization.