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Twenty-five years have come and gone since Margie last
visited the old man's farm. She's not sure she can even
find the place. She's not sure she wants to.
The 51-year-old Anchorage travel agent has made a lot of
progress lately confronting her fears. But she still has
trouble talking about what happened in the barn.
So fragmented are the memories. She remembers her Uncle
George carrying her piggyback across the horse pasture,
her bony legs, black patent-leather shoes and white-lace
socks poking out from under his arms. She remembers staring
up at the barn's rafters, and how the hay scratched her
skin. She remembers her ankles being strapped down, legs
apart.
And then there's the time she was tied by her wrists and
hoisted.
Did things like this happen a couple of times? Every visit?
Why didn't her aunt come looking for them? Did she not want
to know?
Margie wants to remember more. No, she wants to forget.
But she knows she has to go back there if she ever wants
peace. And so she studies a local map.
Although Uncle George has been dead for more than 20 years,
the courage to go through with this comes from two friends.
A year ago they were strangers — Vivian Dietz-Clark,
41; Ezraella "Ezzie" Bassera, 44; and Margie (to
protect their own privacy, her children asked that the family
name not be used). Now they call themselves sisters.
Their demons brought them together. Within the past few
years, memories have surfaced, forcing them to deal with
what had long been buried — the sexual abuse they're
convinced they experienced as children.
A tremendous amount of energy goes into locking things
up inside, Ezzie's therapist, Joan Bender, explained. It's
like sitting on a huge, bulging chest to keep it from popping
open. Any added stress drains energy from that chore. The
lid creaks open. Memories escape.
The three Anchorage women met in a support group for adult
survivors of childhood sexual abuse offered by STAR (Standing
Together Against Rape). And when that group ended, they
continued to meet on their own.
The Marvellas, a combination of their
first three names, is what they call themselves now that
they're a team. The melding of their identities is a metaphor
for the journey they've taken on together.
That journey comes at a controversial time. Repressing
memories has long been recognized by mental health experts
as a way victims cope when events are too horrible to face.
But more recently, some victims of childhood sexual abuse
have been accused of concocting memories — and therapists
of planting ideas in their heads. There's now a national
organization, False Memory Syndrome Foundation, for people
claiming they've been falsely accused of sex crimes, with
some members fighting charges of satanic and ritual abuse.
Detective Bob Holt in Kent, Wash., who's been investigating
child abuse cases for 18 years, warned the Marvellas
this spring that going public wouldn't be easy:
"I'm sure you realize there will be those who won't
believe you."
In Vivian's case, the abuse was too traumatic to face,
but she never once forgot it. And when she confronted her
father last November, he confessed to abusing her as a child
and to recent abuse of another child family member. Last
month, he was arrested in Florida on felony child abuse
warrants issued in California.
In Margie's and Ezzie's cases, the men they accuse of abusing
them are dead, so there can be no confrontations. Nor can
the accused defend themselves.
Margie and Ezzie have written and talked to relatives, neighbors
— anyone they can think of who might have seen or
heard something. But child abuse is veiled in secrecy. Witnesses
are hard to come by.
These women trust their memories implicitly. And so they
push themselves to remember.
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