In our tiny upper flat, I took all the vitamins and folic acid tablets never available to my pregnant foremothers. I ate well, our table a rainbow of green, orange and yellow every day. I drank a concoction called Tiger’s Milk, thrilled to nourish the growth of my child within, a baby I loved with all my heart. One sunny day, while Stan, my then-husband, subbed for the Toronto School Board, I sat on the carpeted floor near our tiny attic window, a pillow to my back, and gazed at an astonishing Time Life photo of a baby inside a mother’s womb. I had no idea how it had been taken, but it inspired me to draw a woven basket so full of colorful spring flowers they toppled over the sides, a wel …
Overcoming the residual fear from sociopathic abuse — two steps forward, one step back
By Eleanor Cowan One bitterly cold winter’s morning at the Vendome metro in Montreal, I hopped a bus that would take me to a lecture on "Attentiveness and Developing Awareness" — and got a complete lesson well before I arrived at the class. The driver of the vehicle, an unsmiling muscled-bound individual, closely examined my transfer for the minute expiry hour stamped upon it. With a curt nod, I was permitted to take my seat. About two minutes later, the driver revved up the ignition for departure, but not before an elderly lady rapped on the glass door, asking for entry. The driver looked down at her, examined his watch for the ten seconds it would have taken to open the door and adm …
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Grooming: How the religious and cultural ideas of my childhood conditioned me to accept pain and abuse
When I said that “god was my first abuser,” at our regular meeting of Parents of Sexually Abused Children, no one sucked in their breath or exhibited shock. A tough group, no one even blinked an eye. That week’s topic, “Grooming” was assigned by Aidan, our lead Social Worker who, while she listened to us, liked to re-shape lifeless paper clips into unconventional characters that she’d stand up on an enormous art canvas she’d been creating for years and years. I shared with my group that, in Grade 1, when I learned that god ordered his own kid, a boy, to save the world, I instantly thought of Gordie, my teenaged brother. As Sister Brebeuf pointed to a bleeding figure nailed to a crucifix …
Recovery from the sociopath — learning to count what truly matters
“Was it the sex?” a new member asked me at our weekly meeting of Parents of Sexually Abused Children. “Is that why you stayed with your user for 14 years?” Three faces swung to me, including the lead social worker of our small assembly, a tall, serious senior woman who encouraged us to ask and answer questions. Aidan didn’t smile a whole lot, but over time, I came to respect her genuine sincerity and tremendous breadth of knowledge. “You mean, knowingly trade family wellbeing for my sexual pleasure?” I asked, disheartened at a question that I found hurtful. “No, the truth is that my husband showed no interest in me. He called me 'Mum' despite my frequent requests that he use my name. I …
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Unearthing my repressed memory of being drugged and raped
By Eleanor Cowan A young woman from my building banged on my door at 3 a.m. “It’s me! Darlene!” Soon on the couch and sipping the hot tea I made for us both, she wept uncontrollably. “I know what happened,” the twenty-four-year-old cried as we waited for the police to arrive. “I know what happened. He ordered me a night cap at the bar while I was in the washroom. I don’t remember going to his place. I woke up undressed and in pain. Oh! I’m lucky I escaped.” “Wow, a nightcap knocked you out like that?” I asked, tucking my shawl around her shaking form. “No, not the drink but the drug dropped into it when I wasn’t looking!” she replied, in tears. The two responding officers, both women, ge …
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When sociopaths use righteous indignation to exert control
By Eleanor Cowan My husband liked to discuss discipline. The importance of it. The intrinsic value of restraining one’s impulses especially when such personal control would benefit the greater good of mankind. My two children and I’d eat dinner while listening to his serious value-driven talks about what would please God and advance the salvation of this sorry world. Sacrifice and service topped the list. Politeness and containment followed. It’s very hard to look back at those years of my disassociation – to calculate the degree of blindness and emotional paralysis that, unresolved, characterized my life since childhood in my first abusive family. I considered my husband to be a religio …
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My sociopathic husband and mind control manipulation
A fresh pail of red barbecue sauce sat on the chef’s counter, ready to marinate overnight. The gluey liquid was lathered on dozens of orders of baby back ribs before they were grilled over flaming logs. I recall thinking, as I brushed on my rouge and applied creamy lipstick for the night shift, that the difference between the calves and myself was measurable. The instant the thought occurred, though, I dismissed it. I wondered at myself. Where did these bizarre thoughts come from? It was the day Stan told me he wanted to take a psychology course at the university. Here I was waitressing nights to keep us afloat and my husband wanted to take a pricey university psychology course about ‘s …
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My First Unsuspecting Year in My Marriage to an Exploiter
By Eleanor Cowan With a sparkling wedding ring on my finger, I’d claimed a much-desired new identity – no longer the binge-drinking daughter of an alcoholic mother who’d taken her own life, no longer the thrice-raped young woman drowning in shame, but instead newly married to a handsome, highly educated university student. I’d begun a whole new chapter of life. Still, I noticed things. Little things that I dismissed. That summer of 1973, after my regular work hours at the library, I waitressed part time for the extra cash to pay for my fall university courses in Paris. While I noted my husband’s five-year high stack of unpaid student loans, I decided that his finances were none of my bu …
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Quelling is not coping — how my siblings and I dealt with our sociopathic mother
By Eleanor Cowan In our family of ten children, our main objective was not to recognize the gross abnormalities of how we were treated, but to quell them. When a storm erupted, we’d leap into action. Unpredictable rages meant that we, Mother’s children, speedily grouped to control the situation and do as needed to quiet her distress and end the drama. Lightning-fast signals fired between us: “Storm clouds overhead,” I’d say, or “Hurricane Warning!” If Mother was revving up for a full-scale crackdown, “Earthquake! Earthquake!” would be whispered as we gathered our younger siblings to dash outside or hide in the basement. Usually, one of us would front the voluble outrage, the insults and s …
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Never Good Enough (My childhood adaptation to abuse)
By Eleanor Cowan I was eleven years old. “Do you know what you are? asked Mother, thrusting open my bedroom door to find me, as she knew she would, in a predictable spot reading a predictable book. “I’ll tell you who. You’re a big, fat, lazy nothing.” Waving her souvenir from Mexico, a horsewhip, she flicked my hair up at the back as I hit the stairs to begin new tasks. Even though I weighed less than a hundred pounds, even though my chores were done and I’d earned the right to read for awhile, I did not defend myself. There was no talking back, no disrespect, no arguing. Only one rehearsed sentence was permitted. I said it: “Yes, mother? What can I do to help?” Standing up for myself would …
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