The Crucible of Silence: My Journey to Prosecute My Husband for Sexually Abusing Our Daughter

By Suzanne Milliesdottir

The Crucible of Silence by Suzanne Milliesdottir takes the mask off the deeply disguised familial child sexual abuser. The face that is revealed is one of a person who lives a normal, law-abiding life and a secret one ― much like the author’s college professor ex-husband. Milliesdottir describes both her practical and emotional journeys that followed her daughter’s disclosure that she had been sexually abused by her father.

Most people underestimate ― if not entirely miss ― that the mother is a secondary crime victim. The author’s compelling story, told from a mother’s unique perspective, serves as a prism through which the hidden human story buried in a single case statistic may be viewed and understood. This is the fuller story that emerges from the silence to speak to a variety of readers:

•The mother of the child-victim is either vilified or forgotten during the trauma’s bewildering aftermath. Other mother-survivors of this crime will discover both a connection to their own grief and anger and coping strategies for use in their discovery-to-recovery process.

•The author provides psychological clinicians with an inside look at the fuller family dynamic that occurs within the often overlooked moderate-to-higher-income demographic of familial child sexual abuse cases.

•Parents everywhere will benefit from the resource information that is available on how to talk to their children about appropriate and inappropriate touching of their bodies by any adult ― not just by strangers.

•The Crucible of Silence will enlighten the general public through one mother’s personal account and the facts and information drawn from clinical researchers and subject matter experts. Together, the knowledge can help start a much-needed dialogue with others about this hidden family crime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Milliesdottir
• Release date: Mar 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452418636

Suzanne Milliesdottir

Ms Milliesdottir has a Bachelor’s degree in Sociology with a concentration in social psychology. Her career has spanned several rewarding decades in human resource management at CSUS, Stanford University and UC Davis and UC San Francisco hospitals. Previous to that she was a health educator for the alcoholism program for the Seattle-King county health departmentSuzanne has traveled extensively to immerse herself in the world’s cultures and remains active in presidential election campaigning. She has long been concerned with furthering the basic dignity of human rights and is interested in the social psychological issues involved in oppression. She enjoys the Jon Stewart Show, the Colbert Report and interviews on C-Span “Book Talk.”

Book preview

The

Crucible

of Silence:

My Journey to Prosecute My Husband

for Sexually Abusing Our Daughter

By:

Suzanne Milliesdottir

Published by Authority Publishing at Smashwords

Copyright © 2011 by Suzanne Milliesdottir. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: All names appearing in this book except the author’s have been changed for privacy. While the publisher and author have used their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. Neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, personal, or other damages.

1. Biography & Autobiography : Parental Memoirs 2. Family & Relationships :

Abuse - Child Abuse 3. Social Science : Sexual Abuse & Harassment

ISBN: 978-1-935953-18-0

Original Copyright © 2011 by Suzanne Milliesdottir

Revised Edition

This book is available in print at thecrucibleofsilence.com

~

FOR MY DAUGHTER,

ALL SEXUALLY ABUSED CHILDREN

AND THEIR MOTHER-SURVIVORS

~

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

The chambered nautilus lives in the largest and outermost chamber of its external shell, expanding as it grows by sealing off the previous chamber. It has been admired through the ages for the beauty of its internal architecture and for its graceful spirals of mathematical proportion. The chambered nautilus has often been used as a metaphor for the human soul and a blueprint for the journey toward internal harmony. It is also a reminder that we cannot turn back.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I would like to thank Debra Birnbaum and Wendy Shuken for reading drafts from the early part of my writing journey. Their encouraging words inspired me to share my story. I would like to offer a special word of gratitude to the senior management university lunch group for their kind support after my daughter’s disclosure. It has not been forgotten. A special thank you to the entire Munoz family for surrounding us with your love when my daughter and I were most in need.

I would like to extend appreciation to Emily Wright for her specialized expertise in family child sexual abuse that helped guide me through the early aftermath. I am also most grateful to Kim Lundquist, a clinical trauma specialist, for the generosity of her time and for her objective, professional critiques of portions of the manuscript. Her ongoing personal and professional commitment to sexually abused children and their families has touched the lives of many.

For her steadfast belief in my vision and early reading of drafts, I would like to thank Marybeth Montgomery. More importantly, I will be forever grateful to her for her invaluable professional guidance that helped me to reclaim the fuller person that I was prior to the disclosure.

I would also like to give a special note of appreciation to the child sexual abuse researchers and authors who have given to me their permission to include some of their findings and conclusions.

Judy Rosen’s steadfast support and decades of special friendship has made the writing of this book easier. I would also like to thank my long time friends from the Childhood Circle of Love. Thank you for reading an early draft and for your gift of love: Sara Beeby, Leslie Bressie, Lalla Neblett, Gayle Scott, Beth Starks, and again, Wendy Shuken.

I am indebted to my editor, Melanie Smith, for her creative vision and invaluable suggestions that have helped make this book a reality. Her ongoing, patient support has made her a valuable collaborator and a unique new friend. I would like to acknowledge Michael Zolen for being on call and keeping my Macintosh humming.

Discussions and critiques with my editor took place for nearly a year at the cozy Café Garden in Sacramento, California. I would like to thank the owner and staff for their support of the arts that has made the Café Garden the perfect setting for activating creative energy.

Table of Contents

Preface

PART ONE

A MOTHER’S STORY

1 - Why Are You Arresting Me?

2 - Club Med

3 - Portraits of Shadow and Light

4 - Poisoned Perceptions

5 - A Refuge in Camera

6 - Tremors and Trigger Points

7 - Climbing the Legal Mountain

8 - Measure for Measure

9 - Reflection, Rebuilding, and a Strange Visitation

Afterword

PART TWO

EDUCATING OURSELVES AND OTHERS

Choose to Not Remain Silent

Useful Definitions of Terms

Child Sexual Abuse Information and Statistics

Parent/Child Read-Aloud Books

Locating a Mental Health Professional

Consumer Protection Advice when Seeking a Therapist

References and Suggested Reading

PREFACE

It is likely that someone you know — a relative, co-worker or friend — has been sexually abused by a parent. In this mother’s memoir, I take the mask off the deeply disguised familial child sexual abuser. The face that is revealed is one of a person who lives a normal, law-abiding life, much like that of my professor-geologist ex-husband.

Part One: A Mother’s Story describes my practical and emotional journey following the discovery that my husband had sexually abused our daughter. My narrative serves as a prism through which the hidden human story buried in a single case statistic can be viewed and understood. What is not often acknowledged in cases of familial child sexual abuse is that in addition to the child victim, there is a secondary victim — the mother — who suffers in silence after reporting her husband’s crime. This is the story that emerges from the silence.

Part Two: Educating Ourselves and Others approaches the problem of familial child sexual abuse in three ways. It is by 1) confronting our unwillingness to conceive of the reality of familial child sexual abuse, 2) informing ourselves and engaging other adults in this pivotal dialogue, and 3) initiating open conversation with our children, that we can begin to make sense of and work to prevent this destructive family crime. Part Two includes parental resource information drawn from subject matter researchers and authors — facts that will help readers demystify the topic as they travel through this sensitive terrain.

To decide whether to share my experience, I have assessed the good that could come from making my personal story public. I have chosen to share with several goals in mind:

~First, the book provides a link to the grief and anger experienced by many similarly affected mothers. They will learn that they are neither alone nor forgotten in the aftermath. Through sharing my story, mothers can begin to feel understood and validated for their own discovery to recovery process. I describe vivid examples of the new social landscape I inhabited and after my daughter’s disclosure, a landscape that was rife with stereotypic judgments about me — both as a wife and a mother. I explore the public attitudes a mother will face, even as she scrambles to regain her footing and self-esteem. I was forced to quickly develop coping strategies to successfully navigate both the trauma and judicial system, while also moving my daughter toward healing. It is my wish that other victim-mothers may be helped by these insights and suggestions as they journey from victim-mother to mother-survivor status.

~ Second, my story will be useful to psychological clinicians and those who train them at family sexual abuse treatment programs in community and university teaching centers. In searching the subject matter literature, to date, I have located books by academics and clinicians who, in writing for their peers, provide the collective voices of anonymous mother-survivors. Their voices are revealed through structured or unstructured interviews and are accompanied by professional, summary analysis. As both an author and a mother-survivor, I provide an inside look at the fuller dynamics of one such family, a look that allows the reader to follow a single, as opposed to multiple, story line. My memoir also speaks to the existence of familial child sexual abuse in the overlooked moderate to higher income level demographic. Parent child incest within this population generally occurs in the absence of child neglect. When it occurs in higher income families, however, the sexual abuse exists alongside a pervasive need to preserve a professional reputation and community social standing. It is this drive to maintain and protect social status that often will trigger the need to deny the existence of familial child sexual abuse. As a result, child sexual abuse within this demographic is deeply hidden.

~Third, my memoir is meant to enlighten the adult public, who is reluctant to engage in constructive conversations about this subject matter. This reserve about speaking up gives the subject more power. In fact, adults have placed all their fear of child sexual abuse at the feet of the lurking stranger. They will likely be surprised to learn that the majority of child sexual abuse occurs within the family home. Through making my personal story public, I portray familial child sexual abuse not as an abstract crime but a vivid human trauma, the revelation of which is meant to spark conversations with others.

~ And finally — but importantly — Crucible of Silence will aid parents everywhere. As parents we consider our love and protection to be unconditional. We may not have realized, however, that parenting includes arming our young children with an additional warning that goes beyond stranger danger. I provide specific suggestions on how to talk to a child about the appropriate and inappropriate touching of their bodies by any adult. Additionally, a list of short, friendly, parent child read-aloud books by age group is provided in Part Two of the book. Many of the read-aloud books have introductory notes to parents prepared by PhDs, mental health professionals, and health educators. They provide practical advice on how to approach shared reading and discussions with your children. Through a variety of examples, the books and pamphlets assist a child in learning how to distinguish:

• the difference between appropriate and inappropriate adult touching, and

• secrets kids can safely keep, and those that should be shared with a parent or another

adult.

It is through age-appropriate examples that children can learn how to sort out these differences for themselves.

For these goals alone, I believe making my private story public is worth any criticism by some. I would note that my book does not include my daughter’s thoughts or feelings about the experience. They remain entirely, and appropriately, within her private domain. She has read the book and encouraged me to share the mother’s perspective. All names, except my own, have been changed.

By learning from my personal experience and utilizing the information and resources at the end of the book, we can all help to loosen the commonplace — but dangerous — silence that surrounds this subject. It is when silence wins that our children lose.

PART ONE

A MOTHER’S STORY

Oh, what a power is motherhood,

possessing a potent spell.

All women alike fight fiercely for a child.

~Euripides~

1

WHY ARE YOU

ARRESTING ME?

I watch through the back window as the hotel that sheltered us for the last two weeks quickly disappears from view. I am sitting handcuffed and clueless in the back seat, while the car darts nimbly down dark and empty streets.

Just where am I going in the middle of the night? I think, but am too afraid to ask.

I smile heartily through the cage at the back of the officers’ heads. Joke. This must all be some kind of a cruel joke. I try to make sense of why, in spite of my best efforts, the police are dragging me off instead of putting my husband in jail.

Just who will save the children? This question plays over and over again in my mind.

My attention shifts to the hard, steel handcuffs pressing like bars against my back. They remind me it was I who was first taken in by a deceptive husband and now, ironically, by the police.

A few minutes earlier, two policemen called to the hotel had removed me from my room and escorted me, barefoot, through the hotel lobby. Dressed in pajamas with my handcuffed wrists dangling behind, I held my head high while my rather maternal breasts — heavy with pain — led the way. Clothed as I was, I felt immune to embarrassment. At least, in my mind, I was engaged in a far higher cause that rendered outer dress and masks useless. In fact, my unfettered breasts were sending a serious signal to watch out, as this lioness fights for her cub. The lobby was empty of guests except for the uniformed night clerk, who watched impassively as we passed out the hotel entrance.

It was several hours earlier that I had resolutely left my room in the same pajamas to take the elevator to the lobby in search of the hotel night clerk. Standing behind the front desk was a very young person who was shorter than me. He appeared to be lost in his oversized uniform. His fingertips were barely visible from under the cuffs that were encircled by official-looking gold braid.

How could a boy help me with my serious problem, I wondered? I was feeling worried, tense, and put-off.

Since I was certain I required help from a tall, commanding action-figure, I asked this short person, Isn’t there even a security guard on the night shift I could talk to? And more importantly, just who is going to save my daughter and all the children?

He had no satisfactory answer to the earthshaking riddle I posed, appearing quietly frozen in place. As he looked into my eyes, I saw that he was calmly accepting my action as normal, and that the request had come from an appropriately dressed guest with a customer service issue. What got under my skin was that he didn’t even fl inch. There was no reaction, not a flicker of life, as I asked for help in protecting my daughter. Instead, I could see that his quiet eyes held no clue whatsoever about an action plan to save the children. I might as well have been talking to an automaton.

I left his empty eyes to glance at a basket perched on the counter to his left. A pile of red, glossy apples nestled comfortably together, asking to be sampled by the nice guests. In the face of my internal dilemma, their cozy complacency clashed harshly in my mind with my need for police action. As no one appeared to really care about my growing crisis, I decided to take action with the only person available — the young night clerk. In a single, sweeping motion with the back of my hand, I toppled the basket, spewing apples that bounced across the lobby floor. Somewhere in this mama’s mind was a clear effort to get someone’s attention — for heaven’s sake.

Perhaps this will be the night clerk’s very own personal wake-up call, I concluded.

The perfect, neat orderliness of the large hotel lobby and its furnishings were now askew, and I felt better. As I returned to the elevator, I glanced back at my handiwork. I noticed that the apples blended in rather nicely with the heavy, maroon damask wallpaper and matching leather chairs. I assumed I had expressed my internal pain and fear of the growing trauma by upsetting someone else’s apple cart. But had I?

There was nothing left to do but return to my room and come up with another plan. With my thinking fiercely planted in the maternal and no other sense, I considered smashing a hotel glass against a wall. That might bring action more quickly against my husband. I stood there thinking that never before had I thrown anything against a wall, much less toppled the proverbial apple cart. Fear and guilt began to settle in. I put the glass down and returned to fretful speculation as to why I was powerless to aid my daughter and at the mercy of the slow-moving judicial system.

Two weeks earlier in October of 1997, I had taken my bewildered 16-year-old daughter from our home in the middle of the night, secured temporary hotel housing, and requested a temporary leave of absence from my position at our local California State University (CSU) campus. Two days after our departure, I called my husband, Casey, and told him to be out of the home the next day. His response was to ask if there was a restraining order in place. I told him that one was in the process of being filed.

I phoned my sister, Brenda, who immediately flew up to be with me. She arrived stunned and deeply concerned. I immediately began providing her with details as I shared the events of the past 48 hours. We went into overdrive, attempting to dissect the unthinkable. It felt comfortable being with my sister, who had known Casey so well, both throughout the nearly 17 years of our marriage and from mutual travel in Europe.

~~~~~~~

A dozen years earlier my sister and brother-in-law had accompanied us to Europe for two weeks. My husband was a longtime member of our hometown’s concert band. The band had been invited to play in both a London city park and in Bonn, Germany. That summer, we’d joined a local audience in Bonn’s central marktplatz, to bask in the warm glow of an evening at dusk. Surrounded by old, majestic architecture, we watched the sun begin to dip behind the tall buildings. We delighted in sampling the local beer and French wine while listening to the concert. The band conductor had inserted at the end of the playlist a rousing rendition of An American in Paris that showcased my husband. I hadn’t known this in advance. When I heard his pitch-perfect trumpet solo, I was moved to tears, thrilled to see him take in his bright, shining moment in this unique venue. For the next several days we explored various regions of southeastern France as we motored from town to town. We not only immersed ourselves in the local subculture but also abandoned our taste buds to the subtle interplay of uniquely combined flavors and ingredients that are typical of French regional cooking.

~~~~~~~

The hotel room Brenda and I now shared stood at a chilling nexus in my life. Gone were the feelings of being infused with joie de vivre that were synonymous with traveling in France; instead, I felt sentenced to my own private Bastille in hell.

The day after Brenda’s arrival, my daughter, Angela, and I — accompanied by my sister — reported my husband’s crime to the Sacramento County Child Protective Services. We did so through a therapist my daughter had previously seen. I was still numb with shock; however, I was also both clear-eyed and fierce in my determination to protect Angela. Two days later, we attended a one-day workshop sponsored by the county district attorney’s office and a local organization, Women Escaping A Violent Environment (WEAVE). Of the several dozen women present, many had bruises on their arms and faces. They were clearly exhausted and frightened. The introduction included a discussion of the cycle of domestic violence, typical psychological behaviors of the batterer, and the counseling services available. We were also walked through the multistep process required for completing and filing two different restraining order forms. Finally, we were provided information on how to serve the order to the other party prior to a court hearing.

After several hours of introductory information from the workshop leaders, the permanent and temporary restraining order forms were passed out. A dozen pages covered five types of crimes, including child sexual abuse. By the initial questions asked, I could tell that the majority of women were victims of family violence and that I was an island among them.

I squirmed in my chair. This is so embarrassing. What if I need to ask a question? The other participants will know my daughter is the victim of this other horrible crime!

I heard the workshop leader say, On the temporary restraining order form, the first thing you will do is to fill in box number 1 with today’s date. Next, move to box 2 where you will provide the full name of the person — first, middle, and last — against whom you are seeking to have the temporary restraining order placed.

I entered the date, and then stared down at the form, trying to focus on where it asked for the first name. I wrote a single letter, C, then stopped. I was struggling to hold back tears. I knew a guillotine blade was hovering overhead, and that when I entered his name, that blade would come crashing down to decapitate our marriage, to wound my husband. I could hear my heart beating in my ears.

I know his name, I reminded myself as a jumble of thoughts stumbled around, tripping over each other in my head.

This is my husband, but who is he? He’s not the man I married and loved all these years. Why did he do this? I have only told a few people. Now his hideous actions will become public. A father who would do this to his own daughter? It makes me sick!

I heard the workshop leader move on with new instructions. I jerked my head up, out of my unfocused thinking. I knew I needed to continue to be strong for my daughter, to do what I needed to do.

I entered my husband’s entire name and looked up. I was learning that to entertain any positive thoughts about my husband that were sprinkled in amongst the new despicable truths would not work. I needed to stay near to the anger in order to do the right thing. After taking principled action, I could then sort out and find a place for the good, both in him and in our marriage. For now, I focused on his criminally destructive behavior to our beautiful daughter.

Angela was sitting next to me. Periodically she looked over the form as she heard the workshop leader explain the level of detail required. I could see she was listening to the questions asked. The form requested specific details of the alleged crimes. I had a general idea, but not the details. I intuited that for a child — my daughter — to be forced to divulge the details was yet another invasive action in addition to her father’s violations.

I turned to my daughter and said, Angela, I will complete my portion of the form, then turn it over for you to review this section. I pointed out the place where she had a choice to describe the requested information.

I went on to say, I will not review your statements or make suggestions unless you want me to. Do you feel comfortable with that?

She looked up at me, and calmly replied, Yes.

I was so proud of my centered daughter. Before she completed her portion of the form, I watched as she took one of the county workshop leaders aside in the back of the room. For about five minutes, Angela involved herself in quietly asking questions and clarifying answers. I had hoped this would be an empowering start for my daughter as she regained control over her life. I saw her confidence increase right before me, as my eyes filled with grateful tears.

During the first week after leaving the family home, my daughter, my sister and I checked in and out of three different hotels — one of them twice due to overbooking. My daughter and I, the crime victims, were waiting for the judicial process to move forward. I hadn’t expected to feel quarantined, to be left living in limbo. Throughout that first week my daughter and I were completely disconnected from our daily routines, cut off from reassuring and familiar surroundings, from friends and neighbors. It all felt entirely unreal. After reporting the crime and beginning the restraining order process, there was little we had to do. We watched television for distraction, and went shopping for needed items — all of which left us anxious and bored.

Seven days after her arrival, my sister was scheduled to fl y home. I was grateful for her coming to support us. Brenda had provided me with an immediate soft landing, a safe place where I could share all my emotions and deep anguish. Together we tried to assimilate how the man I loved had become someone different than who we thought he was. The longer we talked the more I realized I wanted someone to