THE PERMITTED ABUSE OF ELDERLY WOMEN

 

Elder Abuse Awareness Day, June 15

 

By Kathleen Hoy Foley

 

Elder abuse is what happens in shabby nursing homes at the hands of evil caregivers, or at the other end of a phone line when a lowlife bleeds an oldster’s bank account dry.  Once exposed, elder abuse gives rise to public fury and incites cries for political action and criminal prosecution.  There is something ugly to see when an elder’s arm is black and blue or when retirement savings have been siphoned away by a no-name loser and his computer.    

But what about elder abuse that is invisible to the eye?  What about elder abuse that is permitted?  Not only permitted, but encouraged and celebrated?  It is particularly sinister when abuse disguises itself as a noble cause and delivers its wounds from the shadows, especially to those unequipped to protect themselves.  Abuse, no matter what name it goes by or how it is concealed, always injures a body and damages a life. 

An elderly person subjected to abuse forgoes all hope for emotional recovery.  The impact is too great; the time to rebuild what has been destroyed too limited.  Abuse perpetuated against an elderly woman defines the rest of her life.  It is her final chapter.  For many of us, it was also our first chapter.

I am an old woman among thousands of old women across this country who, as juveniles, were brutally impregnated in a time when we did not own our own bodies, when sexual assault lacked description, and termination rights did not exist.  Rape was our offense.  And pregnancy was our punishment.  We hid out in maternity homes.  But the finger of public accusation found us anyway and pointed straight at our disgraced, swollen bellies.  Eventually we were rescued by the confidential adoption process that freed us from all connections to the assailant and returned us to our lives.  But we were permanently, catastrophically injured, and forever shamed.  We are shame—embodied and visceral.  Trauma is our permanent, screeching companion.    

Once again we stand accused.  We are elderly women hunted because of those secret, shameful pregnancies.  We are ghosts fabricated from delusions.  We are worn bodies hunted by younger aggressors manic with obsession, spewing anger the equivalent of road rage.  We are relics hunted for our names; our lineage; for the blood circulating in our veins.  We are fossils hunted for the bones and flesh that structure our images.  We are sideshow freaks hunted for our deformities and DNA.  We are little girls in wrinkled skin hunted to provide humiliating, ancient sexual details.  We were forced breeders, broodmares hunted now as mothers. 

We are invisible.  Young aggressors mock our trauma as fictional.  Yet we are in your family, among your friends.  We eat at your Thanksgiving table.  We are mute, unseen old women singed by the legacy of sexual violence.  Violence that never found justice or voice.  We could not seek justice because justice was not available to us.  We had no name for rape or sexual abuse.  No words for the unspeakable.  No reference for sexual violence committed by familiar faces.  Sexual assault was part of our lives.  It occurred in our homes.  In our schools.  In our churches.  At family gatherings.  We were invisible girls assaulted in plain sight.  It was what we endured and what we were blamed for.  It was a time when girls lived at the mercy of male aggressors—sexual predators who frolicked on wide-open playgrounds.  We were their free amusement. 

Now we are elderly women terrified of exposure.  We have protected our loved ones from our sordid pasts even as we live trembling in dark, secret hiding from its pursuit.  We know that our families cannot protect us.  Caregivers won’t protect us.  Nursing homes, like the archaic maternity homes where once we cowered, can’t protect us.  No cop with a gun strapped to his hip can protect us from abuse that is permitted. 

As the clamor to unseal confidential adoption records grows steadily louder and increasingly hostile and the public imagines fairytale “reunions,” elderly women are silently absorbing the blows and sucker punches landed by aggressors advancing toward them in revenge.  Lawmakers are swayed by ignoble rhetoric from aggressors disguising themselves as champions for adoption reform and retroactive justice.  The public is influenced by delusions of sentimental, made-for-television, “mommy” moments, as the mental health community remains stonewall silent on the living damage of past sexual trauma in the elderly.  All the while, traumatized old women remain targets of strangers hunting them—aggressors enjoying public and legal support as they claim entitlement to elderly women’s lives, their beloved families, and their cherished homes during their final, fleeting chapters.

June 15 is Elder Abuse Awareness Day.  Abusing an elderly woman by invading her life, destroying her privacy, and exposing her past sexual wounds is indefensible.  Perverting that abuse into a righteous cause and celebrating it as a victory is not only contemptible, it is a call for political action and criminal prosecution.

 We are the mute old women sitting at your dinner table.  We are elderly women terrified of the aggressors chasing us because of a catastrophic, confidential pregnancy. 

 

We need your help. 

 

Elder Abuse Awareness Day, June 15

Planned Parenthood Poster Child

Planned Parenthood Poster Child

 

…oops…

 

Planned Parenthood Poster Old Lady

 

By Kathleen Hoy Foley

 

 

Planned Parenthood needs to thank me for single-handedly increasing their business significantly in the last two months.  I understand there’s been a rush for services since my story and book, Woman In Hiding, has gotten some press.  Evidently, no girl impregnated against her will wants to be me.  I guess there are better things to look forward to then contending with giant, irate fifty-year-old babies looking for revenge.  Sticking needles in your eyes comes to mind.   

 

So I am officially offering Planned Parenthood my old lady mug to use in all future campaigns hawking services.  I don’t come cheap.  This is not only because of my star power, but owing to my powerful power in general, which evidently is quite powerful.  I wasn’t aware of this until the hate mail.  I did not know I possessed the power to make people fat.  It’s good to be informed.  Knowing of my powerful power gives me the upper hand in salary negations.  Thank you, haters. 

 As the official Planned Parenthood Poster Old Lady, I expect Planned Parenthood to fork over additional incentives for all the weaving and ducking I’ll have to do while promoting their services.  It’s a pain to constantly dodge giant babies chucking turds.  That’s tough, nasty work, right there.  Sure it comes with the job but, come on now, I have needs and entitlements besides cash.  Dry cleaning, for instance.  Plus massages; manicures; hair and makeup.  Botox to keep my smile frozen in place.

 Recently, Planned Parenthood has fallen into lethargy.  I’m disappointed about this.  I can’t be the only one doing their bidding.  They need a reality show.  Something like,

Un-Planned Parenthood, Damn It.  Drag out all the old ladies from the pre Roe v Wade days—the crones with live, buried bodies in their pasts—and pit them against giant adult babies wearing extra large diapers looking for mama.  Picture Grandma Moses battling Sumo wrestlers sporting huge Onesies. 

Using hand knitted shawls as masks to protect their identities, the old ladies will try to fend off the advancing giant adult babies with nothing but aluminum walkers and the occasional slice of homemade apple pie tossed into the bloodthirsty mob as a diversion.  Naturally, this will not deter the giant adult babies, but it will drum up business for Planned Parenthood.  Once a few sound bites hit You Tube, we’re talking going viral.  Do I have to think of everything?

Being the Planned Parenthood Poster Old Lady is a dream I never aspired to.  That proves my personal failing of shortsightedness.  All along I could have been exploiting the spectacle of my reproductive nightmare, conniving and scheming my way to the pinnacle of tawdry enterprise, for which I would have been very well paid.  Seedy is wasted on trailer parks and rent-by-the-week rooms in motels that believe sheets ruin the appearance of stained mattresses.  Tabloid TV would’ve made me rich white trash.  The sleaze is endless… 

I’m not just talking giant adult babies here.  I’m talking bashful teenage girls and run-of-the-mill housewives taken out by corrupt adoption agencies, diabolical social workers, and malicious, ob-gyn nurses.  I’m talking light-bulb-over-head style interrogations; smarmy detectives; stalking; and surveillance of invalids in nursing homes.  Throw in the questionable politicians and the jackbooted nuns...(sigh)…I could’ve been somebody.  Alas, it’s too late for regrets.      

    
But life does have its rewards.  I’ve proven that I have the power and the talent to drive new business right through the double doors of Planned Parenthood offices.  It is only fair then that Planned Parenthood upgrades my unofficial status and formally endorses me as THE Planned Parenthood Poster Old Lady.  I demand recognition and appropriate compensation, plus future employment as a reality TV icon. 

Call me, Planned Parenthood.  

Convicted Sexual Offenders Have a Lobby

 

By Philip Foley

Convicted sexual offenders have a lobby: Reform Sex Offender Laws (RSOL). Groups are working to change the way penalties are imposed on sexual offenders. While they argue that the criminal justice system per se may not be at fault, they claim it is the 'time served' after the actual time is served that presents the problem. In essence, public punishment continues well after a convicted sex offender is released from prison.

No such lobby exists for aging and elderly women who as juneviles were victims of sexual assault that resulted in catastrophic, confidential pregnancies. These women are in hiding from a society and culture that punishes them for the violence perpetrated against them all those years ago, while holding them accountable to the second generation aggressors hunting them via breached sealed adoption and other confidential records.

The trauma and guilt victims suffer from sexual assault imposes a "LIFE" sentence. Profound trauma makes it impossible for victims to speak for themselves. The criminal and civil legal system forces them to appear in person to fight for the right to protect themselves from unwanted intrusion into their personal and family lives. Many elderly women are not equipped to understand the violence they were subjected to as junviles and the protections the law could provide, if it was accessible to them, when that violence re-asserts itself in their elder years.

We have federally required ramps and doorways for physically disabled persons to gain access to the legal system.

We need to create access for elderly women disabled by past sexual trauma who are trying to cope alone with its resurgence into their lives.

Elderly women enduring stalking and abuse as a result of a confidential, catastrophic pregnancy must be permitted to have "champions." Persons who can appear for them; persons who can adequately represent them through the civil and criminal justice system. Emotional and psychological safety is paramount to a trauma victim. Elders require prospective on the trauma they endured and they need to be informed about what protections the legal system can offer them and their families.

Most trauma victims are unable to articulate their needs to an attorney; most are unable to describe their ordeal to anyone they do not completely trust. Trauma victims survive by adapting to whatever the situation requires them to be or to say.

Convicted sexual offenders enjoy a lobby. Unless society permits them equal access via champions, elderly women re-victimized by past sexual assault will never be so fortunate.

Contact your legislators and insist that elder women re-traumatized by sexual violence through information gained from confidential sources be granted this basic civil right.

FINDING YOUR VOICE

A Message for Girls and Women

By Kathleen Hoy Foley

• You are your own authority.
• Question Everything.  Including social, religious & political authorities
• Learn to listen and respond to your intuition.  It is never wrong.
• Learn to be impolite.  It must be part of your defense system.
• Nothing is unspeakable.
• Stare truth in the eye and speak it.
• You name abuse.  Listen to your body.  It will tell you.  It is never wrong. 
• Stare abuse in the eye and speak it.
• Stare abusers in the eye and name them.
• Use your voice.  Use your words. 
• BE LOUD.  Violence against girls and women hides in the silent shadows.
• Know that you are powerful.
• KNOW THAT YOUR VOICE IS POWERFUL.   USE IT.

Listen to Kathleen and Phil speak on PWR Talk Radio with Jeanne White

Link: http//www.pwrtalk.com/page/j-white

archive 4-21-2013

SOCIAL WORKER NANCY & THE OLD LADY

Originally Written, 16 July 2009 but still relevant. 

 

by Kathleen Hoy Foley

I want to cry for the old lady, slide down to the floor, hold my head in my hands and just sob.  After that I want to set Social Worker Nancy's hair on fire and watch her dance trying to save the lush curls burning atop her empty, thirty-something head.  I want to burn the youth out of her.  Destroy her arrogant naïveté--that ignorance that blinds the young to their own stupidity.
Social Worker Nancy and I go back ten years.  Back to when she was savoring the heady rush of her twenties in a job that lorded power over secrets.  And secret keepers.  Catholic Charities hoards hundreds, probably thousands of secrets in their files.  And burnt tears.  They're supposed to be sealed, those files.  Kept confidential.  The girls hidden there were supposed to be protected.  Those girls are now women, some of us old and so many terrified.  Of Social Worker Nancy.  And the secrets she knows.  The secrets she tells.
So there she was, young Social Worker Nancy cutting her teeth on dismal caseloads when a bawling adoptee showed up demanding a look-see at a stranger's personal file.  As Social Worker Nancy tells it, her heart broke for the forlorn waif unable to control her weeping, crumbling right before her.  She wanted to make her feel better, make this person un-adopted, I guess.  That's when Social Worker Nancy crafted perfumed roses from the misery lingering like stains on the yellowed forms buried in that particular manila folder and tossed my secret along with my identity into the wide open wind.
Social Worker Nancy sits across the conference table from Phil and me.  I am here at Catholic Charities' superbly appointed main office because I want to stop hating her.  Confronting her is the only way I could think of to halt this loathing that spins into visions of evil revenge.  Though I can think of a million ways I'd rather be spending this early spring afternoon.  Gouging my eyes out of their sockets, for one.
"Why?" I ask.  "Why did you give away my confidential information?  To a stranger?   Why did you tell that adoptee what my mother said about me, for Godsakes?  It's bad enough that my mother condemned me, you had to make it public?  And why did you give her the note I wrote to that nun social worker a million years ago?  It was none of your business.  Or the adoptee's.  None of it was yours to give away."
There's fear in Social Worker Nancy's eyes.  And there should be.  Because I'm half crazy and right now I'm loving the idea of striking a match and tossing it her way.  Her fear comforts me.  But she ruins it with a look of confusion.  The doe-eyed gaze of the virtuous ignorant who will kill you just as dead as an assassin with a sited aim, only, gosh, they didn't mean to.
"Because," she answers with such innocent sincerity it sounds half true, "I just try to do my job.  I just want to make everybody happy.  That's why.  That's why."
Ah yes, it's all becoming clear why Social Worker Nancy divulges long-guarded secrets.  Makes up little romantic love stories about adoption.  It's a feel good thing.  There could never be filthy mattresses, never rapes in Social Worker Nancy's stories.  In her spiels to adoptees, every birth is desired.  It's just that...just that the girl was mixed up, sad.  Surely, now that the girl who signed the adoption papers is an old crone, she will see the error of her young and selfish ways.  And since Social Worker Nancy is the designated good fairy, all she has to do is wave her happy stick and all the bad stuff goes away.
I refrain from rolling my eyes, but somebody help me, because I'm about to croon a few verses of Koombahyah.
"I just want to bring everybody together," she continues with a straight face.  "The triad...the adoptee...the adoptive parents and...and..."
I glare at her.  Don't say it, Social Worker Nancy.  Don't you dare say it.
Everybody sitting at this table, including her two superiors, have been asked and have agreed not to use inappropriate familial terms for the captives trapped in this orbit of tragedy.  Becoming a mother is sacred, a gift.  Becoming a breed mare for a rapist is an emotionally crippling horror.  I refuse to let anyone, even these noble religious people sitting on comfortable chairs in this fine, sterile office, maternalize the violence that mutilated me.
So, keep it ugly, Social Worker Nancy.  Call it what it is:  the adoptee, the adoptive parents and the bitch.  Or the slut.  The whore, even.  But woman, do not confuse the blessing of being a mother with the violence of being forced to breed.  Yet...
"...and the, the...," Social Worker Nancy stutters, "...ah...the moms..."       

The moms.  I lean back in my chair and arch an eyebrow.  How precious.  I've never heard that expression used for girls forced to endure the despair of an unwanted pregnancy.  The moms. Makes everything sound so cozy.  Like tea is about to be served.  Like after a hard day of criminal behaviors, the rapist and his stalker can crawl right up into the comfort and safety of my lap.  Yes dear ones, mama is here.
The enormity of my bitterness surprises even me.  Yes, it's a good thing that I don't really have matches stuffed in my purse.  No matter, soon enough I'll wish I had a blow torch.
Social Worker Nancy keeps smiling and talking.  About her obligations.  Her committed pursuit of family and medical histories from "the moms."  About establishing successful reunions.
Evidently, from the condescending nonsense she's babbling, Social Worker Nancy has never been raped.  Oh but wait.  Of course I could be wrong.  Maybe Social Worker Nancy was raped in a good way.  The Catholic way.  Where rape isn't rape, but a spiritual opportunity.  An occasion for a closer walk with God.
Divine rapes work especially well for Catholic girls.  And holy women like Social Worker Nancy.  As devout women are not to be concerned about the goings on down there anyway, given the fact that whatever happens inside female parts is Jesus' business.
Much to his credit, Jesus has quite a coalition of followers willing to force girls and women weakened by sin into mothering whatever the rapists implant inside their bodies.  Good Catholics are required to believe that even a ripped vagina can generate a mini Jesus.  Genitalia for Jesus.  I'm thinking His trophy case must be quite a sight with all that blood and all.

I am so sick of listening to Social Worker Nancy spin gold out of anguish that I snarl,
"Reunion?  Why can't you understand that there is no re because there was no union in the first place?"
Now I am the one being condescending, speaking in the measured cadence of an exasperated teacher who really wants to haul off and whack the kid.
"It was the rapist growing inside of me.  The rapist took over every cell in my body.  There was no escape from him.  Rape is not making love."
Social Worker Nancy stops smiling and stares at me, mystified.  I see now that she is descended from heaven and does not know what to do with someone risen from hell.
Maybe that's why she tells us about the old lady.  To convince Phil and I that her efforts to hunt down fallen women are reasonable and honorable.  That coercing them into giving up their secrets to strangers is not intimidation at all.  It is simply a matter of persuading the moms that it is the moral thing to do.  That even they, these aging and elderly, once-youthful whores who carried the punishment of their lustful ways in their bellies, can be redeemed.  They just have to betray themselves.  Come clean.
Yes, there she is, Social Worker Nancy, tapping her clipboard, pointing to the genuine, authorized interrogation forms stamped with the reverential logo of Catholic Charities.  Jesus nailed to the cross does not wield as much power as Social Worker Nancy in the flesh standing on your doorstep.
So, that's where she showed up.  On the old whore's doorstep.  Announced or unannounced, Social Worker Nancy does not say.  But she had the documents, evidence of the old lady's transgression, the long, long-held secret clutched right there in her official fist.
"Somewhere in her seventies," Social Worker Nancy says now.
I shake my head, picturing the old lady huddled on her couch next to Social Worker Nancy.
"She was crying," Social Worker Nancy says.
I blank stare at Social Worker Nancy.  But all I see is that old lady trying to hold onto her dignity.  And not knowing how.  Up to that moment the old lady had to believe that she was going to get away with it, die with her secret secured down there in the darkness of her own private anguish.  Given a few more years, maybe cancer or a heart attack would have taken her out.  Before the adoptee went on the hunt.  Before Social Worker Nancy rang that doorbell.  But diseases have this tendency to take their damn sweet time in killing you.
What Social Worker Nancy won't admit is that she was there to strip search the old whore.  To spread her wrinkly legs and probe into her shriveled vagina.  That she was there to sniff out the secret the old lady had kept hidden between her thighs all these years.
"We cried together," Social Worker Nancy confesses.
I guess in social work circles crying with the client is code for empathy.  Isn't it splendid that Social Worker Nancy felt the old lady's pain; understood what it was going to be like for her from now on.  What more could a whore want than Social Worker Nancy's understanding of how it is to worry obsessively about the loyalty of your children, your grandchildren after they find out about you?  Find out about the adoptee?
Social Worker Nancy's compassion is grace in action, isn't it?  Obviously, she knows all about how Thanksgivings and birthday celebrations, in fact all family gatherings, are now forever changed for the old lady.  Because mortifying, innocent comments always arise and, now that the old lady's sin is common knowledge, faking dignity, pretending she was not stung, is just part of her job description.  It does not matter how, as a girl her legs came to be spread, there's nothing but disgrace in it for her.
Don't Social Worker Nancy's tears confirm her profound comprehension that no amount of reassurances from loved ones will ever mend the old lady's disabling wounds?  Of shame.  Of rage.  Certainly Social Worker Nancy knows how the old whore feels about herself.  About how it is for a girl so young to be permanently branded a whore.  By the righteous.  By the un-raped.  Social Worker Nancy knows all this.
Doesn't she?
Well, I'm sorry to say, no.  I'm afraid she does not.
And I should be livid.  But suddenly I am only sleepy.  Even though I desperately want to blow torch away the spiritual narcotics Social Worker Nancy is skunk-drunk on, all I can think about is pancakes.  With butter.  And real maple syrup.  And sliding to the floor with my head in my hands.
It's time to go.  I have nothing else to say.  My face-off with Jesus, the Catholics, and the woman who betrayed me in the name of godliness is over.
I look at Social Worker Nancy and wish I saw malice in her eyes.  But all I see is a confused kindness.  And this makes me cry.  Sob, in fact.  I pull her into a hug.  And it is sincere.  But I don't know why.  I pull back, look into those doe eyes, and hug her tighter.  And sob harder.
And I don't know why I'm crying.
But I think it is because I am the old lady.  I am the old whore.

BOASTS OF A STALKER

BOASTS OF A STALKER

Excerpts from

Woman In Hiding

A True Tale of Backdoor Abuse, Dark Secrets & Other Evil Deeds

By Kathleen Hoy Foley 

I stare into a handwritten epistle glutted with pleadings and professions of love. From a stranger. From, it feels like, the rapist himself. The rapist. This new stranger comes armed with distant, familiar assertions…In her words, I hear again his threats that promise me I will never get away.

She knows I did not mean it when I said no contact. When I get to know her, I will see how much I love her, how much she loves me…she announces I can come to live with her anytime I want.  ...to prove her love for me, she tracked down my wedding portrait published in a newspaper. And in her ramblings, she insists I recently visited the drive-thru of a fast-food chain near her house…(and) chased me through streets I have never been on, hunting down my car, pursuing me like prey.

* * * 

Catatonic. No other word fits…I have just returned from the post office, and I hold in my hands another letter from the…stalker. …I slowly open the envelope and pull out the letter. WHY WON’T YOU TALK TO ME? the stalker screeches in bold capital letters. I DON’T TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER.

It is him all over again, alive in the stalker’s DNA. I hear him in her noise. The threats. The demands. The entitlement. The refusal to listen to no. One day he was not in my life.  The next day he was and refused to leave. It is all happening again.

I dash out a short, desperate note. No Contact. Honor what you have, not what you don’t have. Your children love you…

* * * 

Not Kathy! Not Kathy! Phil says, telling me the response to what she—the second-generation predator—sent in a recent letter bragging about contacting all the relatives of mine she could find. “Not Kathy! Not Kathy”—the shocked outcry of an unidentified older relative—to whom she blithely spilled my secret. Her relatives, she boasts. They deserve to know me, and I deserve to know them.

  

…months since the original explosion. …it does not end. She continues contact—pleading, coy, angry—employing whatever emotions consume her…to once again crusade for her self-proclaimed entitlements. Each communication is an ambush…that drags with it a flashback. The smell. The filth. The sights. And I am exhausted from crying, from the fear of being pursued and trapped once again beneath the rapist…(fear) of this person who will not stop her cruelty, her brutal mission to incite my attention and flaunt my shame.

* * * 

We engage an attorney who writes her a stern letter stating terms: stop all contact with the Foleys; cease contacting the relatives of Mrs. Foley. …she fires back with a pages-long, irate epistle of accusations and attacks. “I don’t know how to respond to this,” our attorney says of the jumble of howling, petulant tantrums. Grudgingly she agrees to stop contacting me—a promise she won’t keep—but furiously maintains she will find and contact every one of my relative she can…

* * * 

A newspaper wants Phil and me to tell our story. …I compose the piece, revealing…—my own adoption, abuse, sexual assault that ended in pregnancy, and stalking by the adoptee. I ask for compassion for myself and for other women who are terrified of being exposed. I ask that mutual consent for contact be required.

I am unprepared for the backlash. Instantaneous and lethal.  She, the second-generation predator, has read the article and launches her attack. “Mrs. Foley is a liar,” she states, bragging that she is the one who knows the truth. “Mrs. Foley is imprisoned by her husband,” she claims, “and because she is so afraid of him, she has to lie about the past. Mrs. Foley was not raped. It was a love story.” Her parents forced Mrs. Foley to give her up. Everyone she’s contacted says so. It wasn’t rape. It was love. It was a love story. 

* * * 

Our lawyer, King George the Delusional, forwards e-mails from the predator. “Look,” Phil cautions, “…You need to be angry. …She’s spreading our address around the Internet, apparently asking every low life she knows to send us some kind of evil. And she’s e-mailed out a rant trying to dig up one of her adoptee buddies to get me to shut up…she told George to warn me not to show up at the next (legislative) hearing. ‘Tell him I don’t want to see him there,’ she said.”

I know I am not now fifteen years old, wavering at the bottom of a dark set of stairs with its curtain of swamp odors, gamy sweat rising sour from damp wood, the stench of an unflushed toilet drifting downward as I am being steered upward. Plump meat. Up the stairs, holding my breath through the stink, my clean white sneakers touching, touching the human slough and peelings colonized along the risers beside moldering leavings and something sticky that latches on to the rubber sole of my shoe. Juicy meat. In the slow-motion climb that is too quick. Rushed into the bedroom. Tender meat. To the mattress with its contagions and broad stains of secreted waste.

                                                                        

                                                                   * * * 

(Phil says) “It’s about your mother. Somehow the predator got hold of information from your file at Catholic Charities. Evidently your mother said you were partially responsible for what happened to you. And the predator is circulating this around the Internet as proof that you weren’t raped.”

“She (also) has a note you wrote to the nun where you thanked her for all her help. It was in the file, and somehow she got it. …she’s circulating that around, too. Calling it proof that you were in love. Saying you’re a liar. That the note proves you were never raped like you say.”

“There’s more,” Phil warns. “She’s really been digging around in your past. Evidently she located some of your old friends. They told her that you were in love with this guy. They called him a real catch. They told her the pregnancy was common knowledge. And that you even named her after your best friend.”

I cannot choke down dinner. Or fall asleep in the grip of this woman’s malice. Or pull my mind away from the girl I was at the hands of the rapist. Then, living under the threat of Sister Social Worker, who had the power to restore my freedom or withdraw its promise at the stroke of a whim.

…I imagine Saint Nancy, the Social Worker at Catholic Charities responsible for rooting out all the sins of the flesh, ransacking my confidential file, stealing its contents: Sister Social Worker’s intake entries, my mother’s accusation, my groveling self-betrayal written in my own hand…agonizing details of me whimpering, clinging to my mother…echoes of indescribable pain…(that) Saint Nancy, the Social Worker…swipes and awards it all to a grinning stranger.

* * *

Note from the author:

Stalking is a brutal physical and psychologically invasive crime.

Two Adoptees Ambush Invalid

 

By Kathleen Hoy Foley 

 

My mother died recently.  The last years of her life she lived as an invalid in a body ravaged by Parkinson’s, her mind dismantled by dementia.  Little more than ninety pounds, she shuffled about on wobbly legs; fell; broke bones; needed stitches; choked when she ate; fixated on folding and refolding scraps of cloth and paper into accordion pleats; and wandered about in the dark late at night agitated and confused, often stripping off her clothes in the middle of the living room.  She suffered from hallucinations— plagued by events and people that inhabited the space vacated by her logic and reason.  On her last trip to Florida she was bullied by two rotten kids riding with her in the back seat of my brother’s car.  When they vanished she was confused, then distressed when my brother told her he’d left them back at the last gas station.  Her reality was visible only to her.  Her fear, her despair was visible to anyone who cared to notice.

 

Physical therapy consisted of working with Play Dough and assorted children’s toys.  Because she’d been coached by an aide, my mother could recite her full birth date.  With the intonations of a child well rehearsed for her part in the play, she delivered her lines precisely, with a certain sparkle of pride.  But names and faces were interchangeable.  Or unrecognizable.  Or emerged from her private mystery as an unsolvable riddle.  Time was fluid and unmanageable.  She would rise in the predawn hours and start packing for her trip back home to her childhood in Fieldsboro, New Jersey.  She worried about being late.

 

That was her world when the predator adoptee (see Woman In Hiding, A True Tale of Backdoor Abuse, Dark Secrets and Other Evil Deeds) and my uncle, also an adoptee, ambushed her.  The two conspired with my mother’s caregivers, my brother and sister-in-law, and tricked my mother into meeting the predator adoptee.  They posed my mother for pictures in clothes that hung from her shrunken frame and coaxed that confused, vacant smile for the camera to record the event.  The predator adoptee posted one of the photographs on her blog.  She calls her, “my grandmother.” 

 

My mother, a woman who lived her life tormented by the sexual violence she endured, who quietly coordinated my rescue from a catastrophic pregnancy by arranging for a confidential adoption, would have been reduced to raw panic had she been capable of comprehending what her brother and a stranger had orchestrated. 

 

My uncle knew that my mother had been raped by their sister.  He knew I’d been impregnated by rape.  He ignored the living death that describes the lifelong agony of sexual abuse—agony suffered by my mother, suffered by me.  He discarded the reach of its power; dismissed how the tentacles of sexual abuse access generation after generation of girls, contaminating them with shame and silence, crafting them into women mute with terror.  As my uncle toyed with his invalid sister, toyed with the deep, living wounds of our mutual sexual trauma, as he paraded my mother before the predator adoptee, he perpetuated that sexual abuse.  My uncle and the predator adoptee tricked my mother when she was disarmed of all self-authority, had no capacity to protect herself, and lacked all ability to consent or refuse.  They ambushed an invalid.

 

Over the years of challenging adoption myths, I have learned that my story of exposure and betrayal is not unusual.  Communications from women in hiding themselves, from snippets buried in the under speak of “reunion” articles, and from the tales of women who write me expressing gratitude for the backstreet abortions that nearly took their lives but freed them from a catastrophic pregnancy, all confirm the level of hatred toward a woman impregnated against her will, and the depraved level society will stoop to—as a mob—to punish her.  Even if it is through her loved ones. 

 

I am called a monster.  Therefore, all women in hiding are monsters.  All women wanting to cling to their dignity, to their bodily privacy, to their civil rights, to their personal boundaries are monsters.  Women in hiding are monsters to be hunted.  Society encourages and forces the ambush. 

 

According to her blog posts, the adoptee was planning to visit my mother in the rehabilitation center where she was sent to fade away like a dying little bird.  Fortunately, my mom died before she had to endure more humiliation at the hands of someone so callous I am simply at a loss for words.  Death and dementia are about the only protections a hunted elder woman can hope for.