Playing Doctor

It’s been five years since my family moved out of state; since we began to cling more to each other than to you and dad. It’s been full of adventures, surprises and ugly truth causing reflection at the most inopportune times.

We were at a BBQ, pesto burgers, good beer, great wine and lots of laughs. Our kids played with friends, laughing and running around. Amidst the laughter and corny dad jokes, our children ran in saying they were playing doctor. A normal response may have been to be happy that our children were pretending to a credible, validating profession; my response was far from that.

As my daughters’ laughter faded to fear, I realized that I had shouted for my children to stop playing doctor and to never play doctor again. They were three and five.

I jumped as I felt a hand on my shoulder. My husband calmly told the kids to go back to playing, and said the three words that would haunt me, “Are you okay?” As I turned to look into his confused eyes, I quickly realized that the room was silent. The laughter had stopped and our friends tried to awkwardly avoid looking directly at me. I was shaking as I excused myself and stepped outside.

I was not okay.

That night I introspectively reflected on what had caused the outburst; one so volatile I thought would ensure I wouldn’t be invited to another dinner party.

My husband suggested that I call you and see if you could think what may have triggered the outburst; in case it was from a time before him.

I couldn’t call you, I knew what had caused the outburst and I knew that it was fueled by hatred directed at you.

The hatred was complicated as it was paired with growing up being a perfectionist and people pleaser; not knowing the definition of failure. It was also ironically paired with shame over what had happened.

Shame that shouldn’t exist, feeling abandoned by the two people who were supposed to protect me caused the emotional trauma that had just gone off like a grenade at a dinner party.

If I called you, what would I say, “Why? Why did you bring me back there time after time? Did you know what was happening? Do you know this is why I’m vile towards you and can’t express love properly to my daughters and husband?”

You raised me in a religious home where sexual abuse from one minor to another, especially of the same sex was taboo and something to be swept under the rug. But wasn’t I worth looking past the social stigma to see if I needed help?

How could I let you know that every time we went to play at one of your only friends' homes, that every time their child said we were playing “doctor” that they would close the door and do things that would cause me to be more confused than ever. It felt good but also felt SO wrong, how could I tell you that? I knew you were lonely and I didn’t want you to lose your best-friend.

How could I tell you that I didn’t want to be friends with girls because I was confused over how I felt about them? That I didn’t know if I was attracted to boys or girls, all because I didn’t think what was happening should have physically felt good and because it did, I must have liked girls. Liking boys at my age wasn’t something we talked about, more or less whether or not I liked girls.

I was so confused. Did you see that I was confused or sad? Or did you believe my act as I tried to be a perfect child simply pleasing you.

I don’t want my children to have their mom freak out every time they are simply being a kid. I want them to be able to talk to me about hard, socially complicated topics; to know that I would take on the world for them.

I know that in order to deal with the ripple effect of emotional, mental, spiritual and physical damage those years had on me; I will have to talk to you

But how? Every time you’ve asked why I won’t get close to you, I respond with, “Really mom, we’re fine”. Every time I say those words, I want to believe them. Justifying denial is a powerful tool. How can I tell you that for years I have been lying to you, when I have also been lying to myself.