Breaking The Silence

While going through my second divorce, I had been referred to Dr. Roberta Damon through a divorce recovery workshop at First Baptist Church, the largest in Richmond, located on a sprawling block of historic Monument Avenue. Her office was located across the street in an aged but stately two-story house that had been donated to the church. As I made my way up the brick steps for our first appointment, my hands were shaking, my heart racing, and a pit was forming deep in my belly. I wanted to turn and run.

The small, round, black doorbell was mounted to the right of the door. I hesitated, but rang it. It was a long, piercing sound. It jolted me, a chill running down my spine. Just as I was turning to leave, the door opened. Roberta was short and small, yet her presence filled the doorway. She had a beautiful smile, perfectly coifed blonde hair; her eyes were soft and inviting. I was embarrassed to look her in the eyes, instead looking down, hearing my mother’s voice in my head: "Do not bring attention to yourself. Who do you think you are?"

Roberta invited me up the creaky steps to her office, a small, quaint, and cozy space on the second floor, filled with books on therapy, self-help, and religion. I noticed trinkets from her travels around the world scattered throughout the room, adding warmth and personality. A box of tissues sat on the table beside my chair, and I silently hoped I wouldn’t need them. My stepfather’s voice echoed in my head, “Don’t let me see you shed another tear.” I was hopeful to remain stoic, in control, and matter of fact.

Her voice was warm and inviting, soft, as she asked, "So, what brings you here today?" My mind was racing. I didn’t know where to begin. Would she believe me? I had been to countless therapists, ministers and doctors over the years who had dismissed my stories or simply wanted to prescribe medication. This time needed to be different. I ignored my trembling voice and began. I shared that I was going through my second divorce, that I hated myself, that I wanted to die, although I was not suicidal. I told her I had been a terrible mother and I needed help. I told her I had been abused in countless ways. I told her I was desperate to heal.

Roberta glanced toward the window in silence for a moment. I wondered if I had said too much. The pit in my stomach grew, my palms sweating. Her focus returned as she asked, “How do you feel about sitting outside to talk? It’s such a beautiful day.” I agreed. We made our way down the staircase, through the formal dining room and rustic kitchen, and out through a screened door, down two brick steps to the moss-covered back patio. It was quaint and quiet. Roberta brushed dirt and moss off the steps with her hand. "Here, let’s sit," she said. "Now, let’s begin again. Let’s start from the beginning. Tell me about your mother. What’s her name?”

"Betty. Her name is Betty," I replied, matter of fact. I began telling her that my mother had been married four times. I was born to her third marriage in 1957. I had a half-brother from her first marriage, a half-sister from the second, and a half-sister from the fourth. I shared about the horrific death of my only brother and protector, Landis, when I was just 14. As I was starting to tell her about the abuse at the hands of my mother and alcoholic stepfather, she placed her hand on my knee. “Hold that thought. I need to take care of something.” As she stood and made her way back into the house, I looked for an escape through the back yard. I had probably said too much. My heart was stuck in my throat and I was swallowing tears whole, praying they would not escape down my face.

Just as I was planning to exit through a back gate, Roberta reappeared with notepad and pen in hand. “I need to do something I seldom do with patients. I need to take some notes.” She sat down beside me and asked me to repeat. “So, tell me your mother’s name again.” “Betty. Her name is Betty.” I took a deep breath. Roberta took detailed notes as I described my childhood, starting with being born into my mother’s third rebound marriage, which would not be her last. I described how we had escaped Wilmington, North Carolina when I was just three years old, landing in Richmond, weaving a trail of lies that would ultimately result in my mother’s fourth marriage to a man who had escaped his marriage and left his family behind. She asked for details, names and dates. A chart was emerging, complicated and convoluted, in black and white.

Roberta gently touched my knee to let me know our time was up. The hour had flown by and I felt exhausted, yet relieved. I nodded in silent agreement as she asked if I wanted to make an appointment for the following week. As I stood to leave, I felt taller. Someone was listening. And taking notes. Perhaps this woman, who seemed interested and intrigued, would be the one to take me seriously and help me unravel a lifetime of lies and abuse. The tears I had swallowed whole rose up and made their way out of my eyes and down my face as I walked back to my car. Release. Relief. And Hope. Something I had never felt in my life.