Ordinary Evil: Memoir of a Buried Life, Chapter Four: Clawing to the Surface

Ordinary Evil: Memoir of a Buried Life

Chapter Four

Clawing to the Surface

by Alethea Marina Nova (all rights reserved)

When the tears ended, I looked in the bathroom mirror. I studied the reflection of the woman who had just remembered her father having sex with her as a child. Thirty years had passed through my face in a few short hours. My skin was pale and my expression vacant. My hair seemed darker with shades of gray, never seen before.

I looked around my home and it appeared dirty and disgusting to me —yet it was clean and everything put away. I felt shaky, weak, and the constricted feeling in my chest had returned. The urge to urinate persisted the rest of the day, and I couldn’t shake my still unexplained fear of death.

The following days and nights were hazy. I felt nervous upon waking, but at the same time, sluggish and fatigued. My bladder made me miserable, I felt a sore throat and a shingles outbreak coming on, and the pathological hunger refused to cease.

The memories of my father dry-humping me on me had been asleep far too long in my subconscious, and I really had to fight from being drawn back into my pattern of pushing away anything uncomfortable or painful. As an adult, I had been conditioned by my mother to only accept information about my father which created the image of a “good man” or “hard worker.” This unspoken rule had been instilled and kept alive by my mother and it caused me to question my memories. Not because they were not true, but because I did not want them to be.

It seemed impossible to have mentally blocked childhood incest from my mind. I spent days vacillating. One moment I trusted my memories and in the next, I challenged them, and had intense gratitude that my therapist had interpreted the dream of having sex with my father as not being a memory of actually having sex with him. If she had not done this, then I would have considered the actual memory of having sex with my father, as being implanted in my mind with dream interpretation.

Knowing the memory was true, became the most difficult thing I had ever been forced to come to terms with, but the most brutal times were still ahead of me and the hardest work yet to be done.

In the following weeks, my fear of dying became completely overwhelming. When I went to bed at night I regressed to child-like behavior and lay awake, afraid to move, while clutching a little stuffed bear I had kept since childhood. The bear had become a security blanket. I fell asleep with him in my arms and woke with him by my side. I even wondered if my little bear had once witnessed what my father had done to me.

I had in a sense, become a child again. The little girl inside me was attempting to gain life and trying to surface. Until that moment, she had died somewhere along the way, or had withdrawn into a safe hibernation, but now she had awakened and she wanted protection and love. Most of all she desired to be heard, but a deep and powerful fear held back her little voice.


A few weeks later, during a therapy regression, I found myself as a child walking down the hallway of my childhood home. In that moment my mind switched from remembering in the mind of a child, to recalling the scene from the grown woman I had become.

In the regression, I peered into my childhood bedroom and saw myself as a young girl lying face down on the bed trying to hide under the covers. I saw myself pretending to be asleep while my father was getting ready to take advantage of my need for love, but as a grown woman, I could now rescue the child.

In the memory, I saw my father coming down the hallway, so I visualized pushing my father aside, ran to my childhood bed, and gently pulled the little girl out. I put her safely behind me and protected her with my body.

Mentally going in as an adult to rescue myself as the child allowed me to take back the power my father held over me. After mentally confronting my perpetrator, a large part of the emotional weight had been lifted and many of my physical symptoms disappeared. Yet I remained perplexed as to why the crushing tightness in my chest and the fear of death lingered.

A few days later, I was resting on my bed when a flash of a knife appeared. The dimness of the stormy day caused the shimmer of sharp metal to pierce the room, and just as quickly, the flash was gone. I had no understanding what the knife meant but my therapist had me focus on the knife in the next therapy session.

This regression began slowly. My mind did not want to enter my childhood home. I circled warily around it, afraid to get too close. At first my mind went to the backyard, and then around the side of the house to the service porch door. After a minute or two I went inside and felt immediately drawn to the hallway closet. After staring at the closet for a moment, the memory swept me off to another part of the house where I found myself hiding in the corner of my bedroom closet.

The memories quickly picked up speed as my father appeared in the room wearing his street clothes, not his police uniform. Instantaneously, the scene changed to me lying face up on the bed, fully clothed, with my father’s huge body holding me down. It felt as though my father could have easily crushed my chest with his body weight, but the knife he held to my throat overpowered all other pain. He told me, “Do what I say, or I’ll kill you!”

I lay frozen in terror as my father pressed his body down harder on me. Then, as if the memory was not shocking enough, I saw my mother standing at the bedroom door watching my father on top of me. I searched her face for clues and would like to have seen fear, but what I saw was satisfaction.

As my mother walked away, unwilling to help me, I felt the ugly pit in my stomach where her abandonment had wedged itself. My mother saw the knife and she knew what my father was doing with it. Until that moment I thought maybe she had suspected abuse but that she could never prove anything. Prior to this memory, I had convinced myself that my mother must have been unaware of the incest, but the dreams and visions of my mother in her chair, always reading a book, finally made sense. This image was symbolic of my mother willingly allowing the incest to continue right under her nose.

By recalling my mother’s total disregard for me as a human being, the first real rage welled up inside of me, and I found myself screaming out the hatred that I had bottled up for thirty years. I shook, cried, and moaned.

When no more words could be said, I felt as though I had been run over by an eighteen wheel big rig. My mangled body lay on the bed in the fetal position and I wept softly. My therapist told me to feel a white healing light come down upon me and to feel it surround and embrace me. The light began to illuminate and heal thirty years worth of grieving left undone.

My fear of an untimely death now made perfect sense. The terror that my life would be taken at any moment had been rooted in my father’s use of a weapon to threaten my existence. He may even have used his police knife. This could be why his police belt and the hall closet frequently entered my regressions. Nevertheless, my reality as a child was to lay awake each night wondering if my father would be entering my room, if my mother would ever come to stop him, or if I would violently die at the hands of my perpetrator.

Yet, a part of me still didn’t want to believe any of it. The denial remained intrusive because I had spent so many years remembering the father I wanted to remember —the man I loved so much that I almost worshiped him.

“Strength is born in the deep silence of long-suffering hearts; not amid joy.” – Felicia Hemans

Following the memories of incest and being threatened with death, I noticed something serendipitous about my father’s high school picture. In spite of my memories, the photo had remained in my living room and was sitting on a table near the Christmas tree. Several times since the memories of incest first emerged I had pushed the photo face down. Later I would feel better and prop it up again.

After moving a small lamp to a new location in the living room, I turned it on and immediately noticed that the new position of the lamp resulted in a line split right down the middle of the photograph. Half of my father’s face was lit up, and the other half was a dark shadow. The two sides of my father had been exposed; the one I had chosen to remember most of my life, and the twisted side that my inner child had blocked out.

A major part of me desperately desired to cry out my truth, but to tell was to die. My father made certain that I was to keep quiet, under penalty of death; but I also knew I would never completely heal if I didn’t disclose what I had remembered.


Over a period of weeks, the denial dissipated and euphoria replaced a number of physical symptoms, including the crushing chest pain. The exhilaration stemmed from the self-awareness that truth brings. Although the hunger and fatigue remained, the healing of the other symptoms resulted from the memories coming into consciousness instead of being stuck in my physical body. Until I had been ready to consciously process the memories, the somatic pain and suffering was the only way my soul could expel the unresolved emotional and physical trauma, which had been forced to remain hidden from my conscious mind for more than thirty years.

The storyboard of my physical suffering began to display what I could not see clearly before. The acne on the inside of my upper thighs near my vagina had been related to being sexually abused by my father. The enormous pressure in my chest had originated with the weight of my father’s body being too much for a small girl. The pustules from the shingles virus appearing only on one part of my neck also made perfect sense. My father held the knife to that side of my throat. These symptoms were a cry for help from my subconscious mind, and now that I heard those cries, they began to disappear.

I could now comprehend why the words, “Do what I say, or I’ll kill you!” had come into my sleep years earlier —it was my father’s voice, making its way through time and space.

My problems with rage and panic attacks now seemed so logical, and it became obvious why I wet the bed until I was nine years-old. It all became excruciatingly and abundantly clear why I blocked my entire childhood, and that the illness had forced my conscious mind to wake up from its self-medication of denial.


With the exception of my therapist, I still hadn’t revealed my memories to another soul. When I ran into Linda, a compassionate neighbor and friend, I felt it was time to enable my transformation. I decided to defy my father’s threats, and I knew she would be the person to tell.

Linda seemed happy to see me, and when she asked how I was doing, my emotions couldn’t be restrained. I cried as I revealed my secret…and I did not die.

Exposing the truth did not kill me. Instead, Linda held me as if she knew exactly what I was going through. She gently told me she was sorry, and that she had a feeling that I would be just fine.

That night, the hunger stabbed at my gut and throat because I had dared to disclose the incest to a non-family member. Telling the secret to Linda dynamically mocked my father’s death threats but it would be a tremendous action towards healing. My next step would be to speak openly about the incest with my sisters, and one day, to my mother.


In my next therapy regression, I recalled sitting on my wood chair in Catholic school. The memory was so vivid that I recalled the seat feeling as smooth as glass after being worn down through the years. I looked down at my standard saddle shoes, white button-up shirt, and plaid skirt. On the outside I looked like just another student, but on the inside, I felt incredibly different. The other children were learning, whispering, and giggling, but not me. I was staring off into space. My therapist interrupted my memory to ask why I felt so abnormal.

“Because my father is doing bad things to me.”

The regression reaffirmed that the incest created my separation from the world. Desperately out of place, I was not a child and not an adult.

I ended the regression by telling my father that he caused me deep confusion, and thwarted what a child is supposed to feel about their bodies and about life. Then I pictured myself going to Mother Superior to tell her about my father. I told her that she should require instruction for the teachers and nuns on how to recognize a victim of child sexual abuse. I imagined her calling the police and sending them to my house to take my father to prison.

As I came out of the regression I cried for the child I once was –the child who tried desperately to be just like everyone else, but that would never be possible. She had been taught how to be different by her father. The incest was the only way she knew how to gain attention, affection, and love. My father falsely taught the child in me that male sexual attention equaled love. I felt as if I was ‘daddy’s little girl.’

This was the first time in my life that I allowed myself to realize why my self-worth always centered on the number of men who looked at me. I had an obsessive need for male attention, and in any way I could get it. I dressed scantily in high school, and as an adult, I wore even less clothing. My outfits consisted of short skirts, mid-drift tops, and no underwear underneath dresses. In the summer I wore cut-off shorts with my buttocks hanging out, and no bra. It made me sick to finally comprehend that I measured my value by the sexual attention I received.

In grade-school, and again in high school, I used to allow the boys to touch me between my legs during class. At the time, I had accepted this behavior as a natural part of me. Yet, no matter how often I allowed boys to touch my vagina, or how many men I attracted as an adult, when the sexual intoxication wore off, nothing but emptiness replaced it.


Chapter Five: Letters to My Sisters, coming soon…


© 2016 Alethea Marina-Nova. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

Posted in Child Abuse, child molestation, child sexual abuse, Health, Holistic, Mind, Body, Spirit | Tagged , , , , , | 14 Comments

Ordinary Evil: Memoir of a Buried Life, Chapter Three: Hallway of Secrets

Ordinary Evil: Memoir of a Buried Life

Chapter Three

Hallway of Secrets

by Alethea Marina Nova (all rights reserved)

A few weeks following the dream, an unexpected phone call became the beginning of the end of the image of my father that I had so carefully and dutifully created in my mind.

The call was from the Police Protective League, a charity-based organization.

They were merely calling to ask for a financial donation for police officers. To most other people, the phone call would seem normal and innocent, but after hanging up the telephone, anger began to well up inside of me.

I had no idea what triggered my rage. The request for a charitable donation was nothing strange, and the person on the other end of the phone had been polite and understanding when I declined to give them money.

In the days that followed, the chest pain, rapid heart beat, and hunger were close to unbearable. I felt certain that I would have a heart attack and die, or simply collapse from the incapacitating feeling of hunger that had no end. The chest constriction was especially puzzling because it was triggered each time I opened my shower door.

My bladder problems worsened again, as did the diarrhea, and I suffered an anxiety attack in a restaurant. My body felt like it needed to explode.

The rapid heart beat had become so intense that I could barely sleep or concentrate on anything other than the sound of the thumping in my chest and head. I also couldn’t get out of bed to use the bathroom in the middle of the night without an unexplainable fear of being attacked or dying from an unknown threat. The thought of making my way down the dark hallway, and being alone in the bathroom, far outweighed the discomfort of a full bladder.

In my next therapy session, I asked my therapist if we could work on the rapid heart beat.

Within a few minutes, the age-regression brought me to the memory storehouse of my mind and straight to the bedroom I once shared as a child with my sister Madison. This memory was triggering something connected to my bladder problems because I could feel my urethra twinge and flutter during the session.

In the memory, I sat on my childhood bed with my knees pushed up to my chest and my arms folded around my legs, as if protecting myself. I recalled staring at the closed bedroom door. I knew my parents were out in the kitchen and for reasons unknown, fear paralyzed me. My mind would not take me any further with this memory, but I knew I had to release the fear from my body.

My therapist had me breathe in a hectic manner and then gather all of my strength in order to mentally blast my father. I envisioned opening the bedroom door and cautiously walking down the hall towards the kitchen.

My father and my mother were standing near the kitchen table, which held several bags of groceries and there was broken glass all over the floor. I didn’t know how the glass had been shattered, but my father was furious and my mother, as usual, was silent and expelled coldness.

The memory began to bring out my emotions towards my parents. I imagined myself growing as big as a house and looked down on them so that I would not be afraid. As I did, my parents became the size of two ants and were no longer a threat. In that instant, a small voice came from my depths of my soul, and the child within me told my father he had a serious problem with his temper. I told him that he scared me, and that it needed to stop. Then, surprisingly, my inner child became stronger and she began yelling at my mother for putting up with his temper and for not protecting me from his rage. This was the first time in my life that I experienced such anger, as well as any true awareness about an on-going lack of protection from my mother. The feelings towards my mother were a total surprise, but they flew out of my mouth –corked up for decades.

When I came out of the regression, I felt pretty incredible and looked forward to my day. Even though slight apprehension hindered me, I headed for the grocery store to get some much needed shopping done.

Supermarkets and grocery stores had persistently caused me agonizing physical ailments or disturbing psychological feelings. Even writing down a grocery list brought on psychosomatic symptoms or anger, but my feeling of rejuvenation kept me from worrying about how I would feel at the market.

As I drove into the parking lot, I mentally prepared for the market to trigger me, and I was ready for it, but to my surprise, as I began walking towards the entrance, an unbelievable sensation came over me. It felt as though someone had lifted a 500 pound weight off my shoulders —as if I was floating on clouds instead of the sidewalk.

This strange, yet exhilarating, feeling ended the moment I entered the market. Inside the store I felt an enveloping sadness creep over me. I could barely get the shopping done and left the market without buying the things I needed.

By the dinner hour I had full-blown depression. I tried to take a nap, but my heart pounded while drifting off to sleep, and the bladder contractions erupted.

Two nights later, I dreamed I was in my childhood home and standing near the closet that held my father’s police uniform, policeman’s hat, and some weapons he used on patrol. The closet was at the entrance of the hallway, and I could see my mother sitting in the living room in her usual position —in a chair, with her nose in a book.

In the dream, I looked down the hall towards the bedrooms and the voice with no gender came into my dream and said, “This is how you get to the core.” The voice seemed separate from the dream, as if it was watching the dream from inside my head, or as if the voice had choreographed the dream. I felt this was the voice of my soul and that I could trust it, and in that moment I woke up from the dream and knew that whatever had me so afraid, sick, depressed, and emotionally unbalanced for over thirty years had taken place down that hallway of my childhood home.

The next day, my therapist asked me to mentally go back to the dream and use it for the age-regression. I remembered the dream vividly and began to feel myself in the hallway again. Discomfort came over me, but I didn’t feel any fear. I started visually walking down the hall and looked towards the bedroom of my two oldest sisters Abigail and Kylie. At this point the fear began to invade the regression and I felt myself curling into the fetal position on my bed. The anticipation enveloped me.

When I looked at the small bathroom that my family had all shared for many years, the terror rapidly increased. I could feel it in my stomach, chest, and legs. Suddenly, a memory came back to me without thought. I was no longer standing in the hallway. I was now remembering being in the shower at a very young age.

The water was not running, so I must have either just finished showering, or was about to take one. In an instant my father appeared and he tried to get into the shower with me. A wave of confusion drowned out all thought. I could not understand this memory and I revealed my distress to my therapist. She told me to tell my father to get out of the shower.

“Daddy, get out! I am a big girl; I can take a shower by myself!” I yelled it again, and felt the fear float out of my body. This felt great and I ended the regression by kicking my father down the hall. I then mentally transformed the shower and bathroom into a room with butterflies and angels.

After I came out of the regression, I asked my therapist what she thought about the shower memory because it made no sense to me. She told me that sometimes parents take showers with children in order to save time and water. This explanation had truth to it, but I could not understand why I would have felt such fear about a simple shower. When the thoughts became exhausting, I put them to rest. All that mattered was that the deep depression from the day before, lifted immediately after the therapy regression.

That night, as I lay my head down on the pillow, I felt a sense of peace. As I listened to the crickets outside and the soft sound of the river in the canyon below, I realized that for the first time in months, my heart wasn’t flipping around in my chest. It wasn’t racing at alarming speeds or pounding loudly in my ears. In that moment I knew the shower memory had been true, because for the first time in seventeen years my heart beat felt normal.

“There are pictures of everything except the fondling and the oral sex that my father forced me to perform for him” ~Joyce Allan

The memory of the shower incident quieted my heart and drove away the depression, but a few days later, strange acne appeared on the inside of my upper thighs, the abnormal hunger intensified, and the bladder problem returned in a dramatic fashion. The symptoms became inflamed after taking showers and I woke at precisely 3:00 a.m. every night.

These were unexplained somatic pieces of a puzzle that I didn’t even know existed, and the pieces were beginning to fit together in a very disturbing pattern.


On a crisp November morning in 1997 my life changed forever. That day rocked my existence to its core and there was no turning around to become the person I had been prior to the sun rising.

That day would influence how I viewed everything on the planet, as well as how I treated each person who crossed my path. That day opened up a door in my mind –a door to a room that was nailed, cemented, and chained up decades earlier –only I didn’t even know that door, or the room, existed.

The day before that November morning, I felt oddly unsettled by the upcoming therapy session. The shower regression had completely quieted my abnormal heart rhythms and racing heart beat, and had revealed a non-threatening and simple event in a child’s life, so I had no conscious reason to be afraid of therapy. But a few short hours before the session, as I began to drift off to sleep, a sharp and violent pain came over my entire abdominal area. I had never experienced anything this painful before. At some point I finally managed to fall asleep, only to be awakened two or three hours later to the sound of a child screaming. The pain in my stomach was gone but the cry pierced my sleep, and woke me with a horrific familiarity. It sounded like a child crying out in agony. The horrible wail made me sick when I realized the child’s screams were coming from inside my mind. The intense physical pain from a few hours earlier were gone, and had been replaced by the howling anguish of a child’s cry for help.

As I came into consciousness, the wailing ended.

The next morning, when my therapist relaxed me into my unconscious state, she wanted me to concentrate on the stomach pain from the night before. I felt certain that my subconscious had been protecting me from my father’s violent outbursts and I was more than ready to face his temper and finally heal.

As my mind floated into the past, I began to be aware of feeling nine years old and re-experiencing a camping trip with my parents. We had driven north and stopped at a number of campsites along the way. Up until the regression, I had retained only two memories of that trip. The first memory was of the camera I had beside me in my father’s old pick-up truck. The other memory was of my mother reading a book inside our tent at one of the camp grounds. Until this regression, I could not remember anything else about that trip.

In my subconscious state -in the therapy session- I soon recalled that my mother and I had gone for a walk through the woods near our tent at one of the campsites. The darkness of the woods and the sun setting made us decide to skip like children back to the tent and we sang songs to keep us from being afraid. Until this moment, this had been a repressed memory; it was also my only memory of laughing with my mother while my father was still alive.

Within a few seconds of remembering the joyful moment in the woods, I could feel the fear begin to creep into my legs, and it quickly moved into my stomach and chest area. My body was tense and my mind on guard. Suddenly I was no longer singing with my mother in the woods. The memory had skipped forward.

I was now on the outskirts of the woods and just outside the tent. It was near dark in the memory, and I watched my mother walk towards the campground bathrooms with her towel.

I suddenly felt like an extremely vulnerable child. As she slowly walked towards the bathrooms, I noticed her shoulders were hunched forward, as if she was ashamed. In that moment, I knew she had left me alone with a monster.

In the next segment of the memory I was inside the tent. I saw the sleeping bags, a lantern, and the place where I had always remembered my mother reading her book. As I became familiar again with the scene, I was acutely aware of my mother being at the campground bathrooms. This made me exceptionally nervous. Then in an instant, a strange phenomenon occurred. For the first time in two years of therapy regressions, I was remembering something from outside my body and it was as if someone was showing me frightening home movies.

It all came flooding back to me as I saw myself sitting in a folding chair inside the tent. It was so bizarre to be watching myself from a distance. The brutally painful trauma caused my mind to protect me by revealing the memory in another dimension. It was a defense system designed to shield me from memories no one could have prepared me for.

Seeing myself sitting in the chair with my father standing over me while shoving his penis in my mouth was shocking and unavoidable, yet undeniable. Then, in an instant, my father struck me across the face.

While describing the memory to my therapist, I realized that I had bitten my father’s penis, or possibly hadn’t satisfied him correctly. I knew this was why he smacked me.

My therapist urged me to gather up all my strength, to imagine that I could grow as big as a giant building, and then to push him away. I took a deep breath and grew into a powerful force. This swiftly brought me back into the first person. No longer observing the scene, I was now inside the tent, and inside my own body.

I pictured myself shoving my father off me, and taking power over the memory by stopping the oral sex, and by expressing my true feelings for him.

At the end of the re-enactment, I envisioned folding my father up in the tent, and imagined stomping the tent into the ground with my giant foot.

Taking control over that memory was the first step towards a metamorphosis from victim into a warrior for the child inside of me. My mother didn’t do the job of being my protector, so I saved the little girl who was being sexually assaulted by her father. At age nine I wasn’t able to throw a chair at my father or tell him to stop shoving his penis in my mouth.

At age thirty-five, I had that power.

The negative energy I released by facing this memory, confronting, and then overpowering my father for the first time in my life, was a crucial part of my new strength. I may never remember the details, but after my father ejaculated, and when my mother returned to the tent, I probably behaved like a good girl, as if nothing ever happened.

Yet, ending the memory from a place of power, instead of being a victim, was the beginning of finding my way through the maze of illness, fear, and depression.


After I came out of the regression, I reflected on the fact that my therapist’s explanation about parents taking showers with children to conserve time and water had not been why my father tried to climb into the shower with me. He did it to molest me, and it became abundantly obvious why showering triggered the powerful feeling of something being terribly wrong.

Clarity finally presented itself about why numerous physical problems plagued me in the shower. It also became clear why the phone call from the Police Protective League had set me off. Police officers are supposed to protect and serve the community and their family. My father was not a protector. He was a sexual predator and a hypocrite.

I quickly realized that it had been important that my therapist did everything she could to imply a perfectly normal reason for a father to want to shower with his daughter.

My therapist telling me that parents often take showers with children for benign reasons, was brilliant. This way I would never think she had planted the idea of incest in my mind. The memories came from me, and no one else.

In the days following this memory, my fear of death curiously grew stronger. Irrational fear dominated my life. My therapist suggested that we work on the abnormal fear of death in a therapy session.

As soon as she induced me into an age-regression, I found myself in my childhood home lying in bed in the room I had shared with my sister Madison. My father stood in the doorway wearing his police uniform and he looked big and powerful. I could go no further in the memory. My mind went completely blank. By this point I had come to terms with the fact that he probably went into my room to sexual abuse me, but that was not revealed to me.

I could not confront the memory in the regression, so I imagined my father to be two inches tall and sternly told him that I would not live in fear anymore and that he had no power over me. I cleansed him in a white light and erased him from my mind. I waited for a calm feeling to come over me, but it did not. I continued to feel tense. Something was unresolved, so I took a deep breath and allowed whatever it was to drift slowly into my mind.

Again I was back in time, but now in the role of observer. I watched the scene unfold from outside my childhood bedroom. The room was dark but I could see the bed and the covers. As the image became clearer, I saw myself as a young girl lying face down under the blanket. As I began to recall trying to hide and pretending to be asleep, my emotions came flooding back.

The memory brought back the awareness of Madison in her bed next to me with her face to the wall. She was awake but I sensed her fear, and with some confusion, I felt sadness for her. Not certain where this compassion for her was coming from, my focus went back on my father. He was wearing his police uniform and this time I noticed his holster belt. Something significant about that belt stuck in my mind.

I watched my father approach the bed like the flickering of an old-time movie. Short frames flashed before me. My father sat on the edge of the bed and began to massage my back. The memory of my sister still in the other bed with her face to the wall continued to find its way into the flashes. The memories quickly turned disturbing and vile when my father stopped massaging me, lowered his pants and dry-humped me. Then my mind went blank. It was as if someone suddenly shut the movie off and turned the lights on in the theater.

Although the memory had ended, I still needed to allow the child within to speak, so I pictured my father standing before me. I heard my voice change from that of an adult to a child. I was no longer in control of my emotions or words. It was imperative that the victim inside of me express herself. The little girl I once was, pushed me aside because she had waited thirty years to speak up and nothing would stop her.

When my inner child finished with him I held her, and we sobbed.

Chapter Four: Clawing to the Surface, coming soon…


© 2016 Alethea Marina-Nova. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

Posted in Child Abuse, child molestation, child sexual abuse, Headlines, Health, Holistic, Mind, Body, Spirit | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Ordinary Evil: Memoir of a Buried Life, Chapter Two: The Plastic Sheet

 Ordinary Evil: Memoir of a Buried Life

by Alethea Marina Nova (all rights reserved)

Chapter Two

The Plastic Sheet

 “My mother hurt me more than my father ever did, and she never lay a hand on me” ~Former Miss America and incest survivor, Marilyn Van Derbur 1

From my journal February 20 1996:

The odd sensation has invaded my mind again, always disturbing a peaceful shower. One minute the warmth of the water is streaming down, cleansing me, and in the next moment, there’s a sick feeling flooding my gut. My insides are screaming at me like a built-in body alarm, “Something’s wrong! Something’s wrong!” I can’t understand why virtually every shower I have taken for the past six years has created an intuitive, but dreadful feeling about something unknown. It seems to come from a transcendental place, but feels like an inner madhouse.


The bizarre feeling in the shower had gone on for years, as did waking at 3:00 a.m., but I didn’t know these strange occurrences, combined with the new physical ailments, was my inner child attempting to make contact with me. A crucial message needed to be heard, but the truth remained too devastating for my conscious mind.

By March of 1996 the terrible fatigue in both my mind and body dominated my life. I was bed-ridden for days at a time and developed gas pains that ripped through my side. The dizziness had intensified, and I continued to stuff food in my mouth, but this was a starvation driven by my mind.

My lower abdominal lymph nodes became so inflamed that the throbbing woke me in the middle of the night, as did much of the physical suffering. Although I had experienced heart palpitations and an irregular heart beat since I was eighteen, my heart had now begun jumping around in my chest like a bouncing ball. One night, feelings of electricity shot through my chest and sent me to an emergency room. The attending physician and a top cardiologist found no cause for the abnormal heart rhythms.

The intense rapid heart rate grew into a daily experience. The thumping in my chest came in my sleep, while watching television, even while reading books; but it became strongest after eating food. I repeatedly saw a cardiologist in a desperate attempt to find an organic reason for the heart disturbance, but the tests always came back negative for any problems.

The nightmares were unceasing, and nearly every night, I continued to wake at the ghostly hour of 3:00 a.m, only it was no longer just the numbers on the clock which taunted me. Now when I woke at 3:00 a.m, I felt the hunger. Other nights I woke up choking, and each time the clock glared at me —3:00 a.m.

Therapy, while progressing in a myriad of ways, had become stuck on the issue of my mother’s lack of love for me. During this time, I had such intense diarrhea that food went right through me and into the toilet within a few minutes of eating.

My instincts told me the diarrhea had to be connected to my mother’s impending move to another state. My conscious mind had no loving thoughts or memories about the home where I grew up, nor for my mother, but I felt that the sale of the family home and her leaving the state was disturbing the child inside me.

My mother, like her home, was always meticulously clean. Her now grey hair was recurrently treated and styled at the beauty salon, and my mother loved to wear navy blue. She was never overweight, but she carried her body in a way that seemed as though she held deep sorrow, shame, or possibly repressed anger.

My mother had a quiet, yet harsh way about her, but it seemed hard to believe that such a well-groomed and relatively quiet woman could create such tremendous physical suffering in me. It’s not like my mother was a raging alcoholic or a belligerent person. She was more passive aggressive than anything —but would never admit to it.

In spite of my belief that the diarrhea was related to my mother, I went back to my internist. He politely listened as I rattled off my new list of ailments, and told him about the diarrhea. He scribbled more notes on my chart which had grown an inch thick. When he examined me and found nothing physically wrong, I explained to him about my mother’s move and that I had a feeling my violent diarrhea stemmed from feelings of having been emotionally abandoned as a child. My doctor said nothing, but he did raise his eyebrow and jotted more notes. I could only imagine what he was writing. Patient thinks her mother is causing her acute diarrhea. Patient is nuts.     


In the early morning hours of Father’s Day in 1996, several nightmares and the sound of my own crying woke me up. I could not remember what the dreams were about, but by the end of the day, I continued to have difficulty shaking the intense emotional pain that lingered from the dreams. When I searched my diary pages from previous years, I realized for the first time that Father’s Day always created a multitude of symptoms and nightmares. I just had no understanding why, and attributed it to his death when I was twelve.


In late summer of 1996, my mother and sisters decided to unite for a reunion at a resort lake in the mountains of California. Although I knew that being around my mother might be a challenge, I looked forward to using my mental tools and testing the progress I had made in therapy over the previous year.

I fully expected to enjoy the trip with hopes of drawing closer to my mother, but the moment the reunion began and I stood in her presence, time and space were swept away. Once again, and with considerable disappointment, I found myself reacting to her like a child who longed for her mother’s love and approval.

I could not understand why my mother’s close proximity caused me so much stress. Big steps had been made in therapy with regards to my feelings for her, yet something was very wrong. Every time I became closer than ten feet to her, my neurological system went haywire. My body shook, and it felt like electrodes were zapping me. My body behaved fearful, yet I had no conscious fear of her.

The second day of the trip my mother slipped and fell from a canoe. She was soaking wet and unable to pull herself back onto the dock so Madison and I had to physically lift her out of the water. My mother acted a bit shaken, but she quickly assured us that she was physically fine.

However, she had been so embarrassed by the fall that she made my sister, Madison, and me swear not to tell anyone. Standing on the dock, dripping wet, my mother looked at us with conviction, and almost as if it were an instruction, not a request –she said,

“It’s a secret; you have to keep the secret.”

As I stared blankly at my mother something stirred inside of me. Those words awakened an undeniable feeling that I had heard them as a child, but I had no memory of ever hearing those words before. Yet, that command struck me as being connected to something shrouded from the past. “You have to keep the secret.”

What power that request had!

After returning home from the trip, the dreams of being raped returned and invaded what little sleep I managed to have. Although the rape dreams were frightening, I always assumed they were merely the result of normal fears that women have from time to time. Yet, their frequency and intensity could not be ignored. The majority of the dreams ended just before the rape took place, but occasionally my mind experienced the terror and pain of the physical violation. My therapist did not interpret the dreams as anything too urgent, or as real events, but she did feel they were linked to issues with trust.

A few weeks after the reunion, early one morning, just as consciousness crept into my sleeping mind, I heard a man’s voice in my memory. He was angry and authoritative when he demanded, “Do what I say or I’ll kill you!” The words shook me straight out of sleep and I froze in my bed. The threat came from my subconscious but differed from a dream. They seemed more like a memory.

I wrote the words down in my journal, but quickly stopped wondering about it, and just hoped it wouldn’t happen again.

I quickly discovered that pushing away subconscious messages is detrimental.


My father died an agonizing and spiritless death in a rented hospital bed in the den of my childhood home. I was twelve years old and always retained a vague recollection of sitting by the hospital bed looking at him in a coma.

I could always recall the skeletal body that lay motionless, but I could still see him breathing. He died in the quiet darkness of the middle of the night. I was told by one of my sisters that he died at 3:00 a.m., but I have no memory of that.

I could always clearly remember watching the emotionless medical technicians wheel his body out the front door in a body bag. There was also a vague memory of my mother turning my head away in order to shield me from seeing the strong and tall father that I loved –seeing him reduced to a corpse in a black plastic bag. To this day, it is the only memory I have of my mother that involved any kind of love or compassion.

From my teenage years, and well into adulthood, I carried an almost defiant certainty that I mentally blocked out the vast majority of my childhood because of the death of my father, but this really made no sense. If my father’s death caused my lack of memory, then surely I would have retained wonderful recollections of him. Certainly I would have remembered fond moments between father and daughter, fun filled vacations, birthdays and Christmas mornings beside the tree. If his death was disturbing to me, and if he had been a loving father, or at least a decent man, then I would not have blocked out my entire childhood.

By winter of 1996 my mother’s lack of maternal love stopped coming up in therapy regressions and the diarrhea subsequently ceased. My father’s death now seemed much more important to my subconscious because my regressions began to take me directly back to age twelve and to the night he died.

The first regression brought the awareness of being in my childhood bedroom. The intensity of that night came into my memory. I had been dozing in and out of sleep that night because we all knew his demise hovered.

The age-regression brought me the awareness of my mother and my grandmother (my father’s mother) talking at the other end of the house. The light from the kitchen seeped through a crack in my bedroom door and at some point I got up to walk into the hallway. In that moment my mother came into my room. She and my grandmother stood at my bedroom door and I could read their faces.

“Your father has gone to Heaven” my mother said.

In the next part of the regression I re-experienced watching the technicians carry my father’s body out the front door and, in the regression, I attempted to experience the pain of his death. Up until that moment, I had consciously felt his passing had been dreadful for me.

Even in my teens, I had always remembered sobbing at his funeral, yet anguish did not surface during this age-regression. My certainty that this was the most painful event of my life deflated. I could not find an ounce of sorrow over my father dying.

My therapist had me end the regression by erasing my father from my mind with a giant magic eraser, but this would not wipe out what had been left unsaid at his deathbed.

Over the course of the following weeks, therapy regressions repeatedly brought me back to my father’s death bed where I sat staring at him in his coma. The only thoughts which had survived the passage of time were of a young girl’s confusion about why her father was leaving her, and there was some anger about his lack of fatherly love.

Then, in a breakthrough regression, I finally told my father how this made me feel. I also told him that it had been emotionally destructive not to have any memories of him ever hugging me or telling me that he loved me. I then told my father that I was sorry he got cancer but I would not allow any guilt to stop me from telling him off. These regressions to his deathbed alleviated a number of physical symptoms, so I knew the emotions of anger were true.

By the summer of 1997, after three years of immobilizing fatigue, and after a year and a half of therapy, I was finally able to ride my bike two days a week, and walk the beach every morning.

Being able to enjoy such simple luxuries without becoming bed-ridden, was a miracle of the therapy. Some physical problems remained and I was not able to exercise like I had before the cfids/ME first struck, but walking on the beach and feeling the wind in my hair while riding my bicycle, was like finally being allowed to come out of a dungeon.

In July of that year my renewed pleasure for outdoor activity and mental improvement hit a brick wall when I attended another family reunion at the lake.

Just like the previous year, I looked forward to utilizing my new strength in the presence of my mother. However, similar to the previous get-together, old wounds were about to be pried open with a pair of hot pliers.

I handled the majority of the trip well, and unlike the year before, my mother did not evoke much physical discomfort. I even enjoyed a portion of my time with her, but on the last morning of the reunion at the lodge, my life changed dramatically when we were all preparing to leave for the airport.

My mother stood in the kitchen of the lodge looking at me. She asked in an accusatory way, “did you strip your bed sheets?”

Her inquiry hit me in the gut. Her words affected me just like the previous year when she told Madison and me, “You have to keep the secret.” Only this time, unlike the command to keep her secret about falling in the lake, I knew exactly why her remark about my bedding had such an impact. Her question reminded me of the plastic sheet that lay between my mattress and my bed sheets as a child.

Unlike the vast majority of my childhood memories, wetting my bed until I was nine,  remained indelibly in my mind.

If I happened to be invited to a sleepover, the plastic sheet came right along with me like an unwelcome guest; but until I heard my mother ask if I stripped my sheets, I had not remembered the absolute mortification of the plastic sheet.

The humiliation always began with my mother making a phone call to the parents of the child who invited me to spend the night. This is when my mother informed them of “my little problem,” and off I went with my overnight bag, toothbrush, and plastic sheet under my arm.

This had been the first time in over three decades that I allowed myself to remember the oppressive shame attached to the plastic sheet, and wondered if anyone in my family ever thought it strange that a nine year-old girl was still wetting the bed? The most likely answer was that —just like everything else in my family— no one ever talked about it and I was never taken to a doctor.

My mother’s comment about my bed sheets had unknowingly aroused a malignant mass, which had lodged itself inside the depths of my unconscious for over three decades. Within a few short days of returning home, I suddenly lacked the ability to relieve a full bladder. I sat on the toilet in tears as only a trickle came out.

Assuming I had contracted a bladder infection, I promptly drank more water, as well as a glass of cranberry juice in order to flush out any bacteria, but my bladder felt as if it would explode. I tried to urinate again and barely a drop came out. In order to gradually release my urine, I continued to go to the toilet about thirty times a day.

Two separate gynecological exams found no infection, nor any medical problem. I eventually cut myself down to one small glass of water per day and only took sips from it every few hours. I deliberately went to bed with an empty bladder, but continued to wake up ten or fifteen times during the night, feeling like I had to urinate. Each agonizing time, nothing came out.

Therapy regressions for the bladder did not bring up any specific memories, but kept leading my mind to my life-long and almost obsessive fear that the good can be taken away at any moment. In spite of healing work for this fear in the regression, my bladder problem persisted. I confined myself to the house, became afraid to drink water, and continued to strain to release my urine.

When I could no longer bear such debilitating physical torment, I went to a top urologist. The doctor did an ultrasound on my bladder and inserted a tube up my urethra. Nothing was found. The doctor told me that if the condition did not improve it would be necessary to insert a camera scope up my urethra to check for a tumor. I said thanks, sounds lovely, but no thanks.

My decision to decline the camera scope was based on the other negative findings by doctors, and that my bladder problem began soon after being reminded about wetting my bed and the plastic sheet. Further research about chronic fatigue immune dysfunction syndrome/ME led me to discover that the feeling of a full bladder, or frequent urination, has been linked to the disease.

I made an appointment with a cfids/ME specialist.


As I entered the office lobby of the specialist, the stark lack of male patients in the waiting room was immediately noticeable. Women occupied every seat, and they all had a familiar look to them. They were mostly my age or slightly older, and each of their faces portrayed desperation mixed with hopelessness.

After checking in, I sat down and waited my turn. I watched as each of the other women entered the door that led down the hall to the treatment areas. The women who came back out never looked any better, and I briefly contemplated bolting for the exit. My plot was spoiled when I heard the nurse call my name as warmly as they do at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I sighed and tried to remain as positive as I could.

As the nurse led me towards the specialist’s private office, I passed two women slowly wandering up and down the hallway. Both seemed in a daze. Other women were sitting quietly in dimly lit rooms, and some were receiving intravenous medicine.

The atmosphere resembled a mental institution with lost souls and bizarre medical experiments.

As I sat down in the doctor’s private office, I told him about my physical ailments and emphasized the bladder problem. While the doctor wrote his mysterious notes I asked him about the women who were drifting down the hallways, and about those sitting in dark rooms with IVs in their arms. He told me the women had been treated with drugs for their cfids/ME symptoms and were waiting for any affect of the medication to begin.

The doctor could see the perplexed look on my face so he further explained that people go to him when they are desperate. The women in his office were trying any medication available in order to make their symptoms go away.

The specialist then told me, “every day a patient begs me to help them with the symptoms. They tell me that if I don’t do something, they will kill themselves.”

In that moment I realized that in spite of the misery with my bladder, I had been extremely fortunate that the hypnotherapy had removed so many of my other physical  symptoms.

Otherwise I would most likely be one of those women.

The specialist asked me about my family history and I mentioned my father’s unpredictable temper. To my surprise, the doctor told me that over half of his patients grew up in a home where they felt unsafe. I silently wondered if my father’s rage could be the root cause of the cfids/ME and all my emotional problems.

As the specialist spoke to me about trying a prescription drug to relieve the bladder problem, I heard my inner voice rejecting his words. I am strongly against flippantly taking pharmaceutical drugs, but I had become so despondent that I reluctantly ignored my intuition.

The first medication didn’t work, so before I left his office he gave me a different pill, but it soon made me feel high. Neither medication relieved the urinary difficulty, so instead of trying more drugs, I honored my intuition, and allowed the hypnotherapy to be my path to healing.

As I continued working in therapy on the dread of good things ending abruptly and without warning, my decision to decline the medication finally paid off. My bladder gradually improved with each regression. I still had to use the toilet abnormally often, but it was no longer painful, and I was able to drink more water.

Yet, the persistent hunger assaulted my gut like a jackhammer, and the rapid heart rate, dizziness, vaginal pain, and sore throats continued. The rapid heartbeat woke me from naps, and at night from deep sleep. The pounding in my ears became so intense that I felt it in my chest, and each night, as I lay my head on the pillow, I felt my heart thumping in my brain.

Although dreams about my childhood home were not uncommon for me, after the visit to the specialist, they began to enter my sleep with great frequency. The dreams focused mostly on the hallway that led to the bedrooms, or my mother sitting in a chair reading a book, and they also concentrated on the hallway closet.

Even twenty years after my father’s death, my mother still kept his police uniform, hat, shoes, and his old coin collection in that closet. When my mother finally sold the house and moved away, she gave me his policeman’s hat, coin collection, and the flag that had been draped over his casket at the funeral. I loved my father, so these items were sacred to me and I promptly placed them in my living room where I could see them daily.

It seemed important for me to preserve his memory.


In late October of 1997 I woke each morning with tightness in my chest so powerful it prevented me from inhaling normally and I could not walk down the street without difficulty breathing. Once again I saw the cardiologist who pronounced me very healthy, and the problem was attributed to the cfids/ME.

During this period of time, dreams of drowning in huge waves resurfaced and I began to wake up in the middle of the night unable to breathe. Gasping for air, I sat up quickly in my bed and shook myself awake. Eventually I found my normal breathing pattern, but I became too afraid to fall asleep out of fear that I would stop breathing and die.

When I did fall asleep, my heart pounded like a loud drum, being beaten at a rapid pace. Halfway into a state of sleep I could feel it race at high rates, flutter, flip, and skip beats. I was terrified that my heart might stop out of pure exhaustion.

The only relief from my agonizing existence came in the form of a soothing and powerful voice which came to me one morning while still half asleep.

The voice had no gender, and told me, “You are going through a transformation.” It felt more like a supernatural experience than a dream. It was eerie, but at the same time I felt comforted. A sense of peace enveloped me because I felt it was the voice of my soul reaching out to me in order to assure me the suffering would eventually lead to something beneficial.

The morning after this took place, the voice came to me again upon waking, and as if my soul needed to confirm the message for me, the voice repeated, “You are going through a transformation.” My therapist also believed that my soul was helping me along in my journey.

In spite of this moving metaphysical experience, the multitude of physical problems was unceasing.

The tightness and constriction in my chest began to increase immediately after stepping into the shower.


By early November 1997, I felt completely ready to face my father’s uncontrollable temper, but my regressions continued to bring up other issues. My subconscious was in control during age regression therapy so I had to let go and allow my unconscious mind to give me what I needed, instead of what my conscious mind wanted to face.

In mid November, I had a very disturbing dream, in which I found myself in an unknown house, in an unfamiliar bedroom. The room had flower patterned wallpaper, and in the bedroom of the dream, I had sex with my father. I did not dream about the sex in detail, I just knew in the dream that we had sex. After we had sex, my mother appeared in the dream. She sat on the edge of the bed where I just been with my father. She then stuck her tongue out at me like a child. I woke up immediately after this.

The next day, I communicated the dream to my therapist. Although the dream was shocking to me, she told me it had nothing to do with actually having sex with my father. She helped me interpret the dream to mean something totally benign. Her explanation made sense to me and I happily put the dream out of my mind…

Coming soon…Chapter Three: Hallway of Secrets


  1. Used with personal permission from Marylin Van derbur


© 2016 Alethea Marina-Nova. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

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Ordinary Evil: Memoir of a Buried Life, Chapter One: The Messenger

 Ordinary Evil: Memoir of a Buried Life

by Alethea Marina Nova (all rights reserved)

 Chapter One
The Messenger

“If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.”
― George Orwell

From my journal, April 10th 1993:

In the silence and darkness, I strained to see the clock; as always it read 3:00 a.m. The house was quiet and I had no conscious reason for fear, yet I dared not move my body; not even an inch.

Like countless nights before, my mind jolted me awake precisely at the same time. It’s never 2:59 or 3:01; it’s always 3:00 a.m.

This abominable hour has aroused me out of my unconscious for more than ten years, so assuming it’s just a coincidence is futile. My hope that the clock will read differently, turns into a sickness in my stomach, as the red digital numbers relentlessly glare 3:00 a.m., like a warning.

I even fear the clock.


In January of 1994, at the age of thirty-one, I suddenly developed nausea, dizziness, along with ringing and popping in my ears. Frightening pressure in my head and neck quickly followed. After years of being an active lover of the outdoors, my ability to exercise, greatly diminished and I grew fearful when unusual headaches started to occur. The pain in my head felt as if someone were squeezing it in a vise while stuffing cotton in my brain.

In a desperate search for answers, I began seeing several of the best medical doctors in my state. Each time that I sat on the edge of cold examination tables in my backless hospital gown, and with my legs dangling and my heart racing, I feared a horrific disease had enveloped my body, and my lifelong dread of an early demise kicked into high gear.

I was eventually told by a neurologist that I might have multiple sclerosis and needed to have an MRI of my brain.


It was well past nine in the evening when the nurse handed me back my clothing and jewelry after the magnetic resonance imaging test (MRI). The impersonal receptionist behind the beveled glass window said my doctor would call me the next morning. It would be another twelve hours before I knew if I had a serious disease, or a brain tumor.

While waiting the agonizing twelve hours, I was too frightened to speak, scream, or sleep so my body expressed my fear by literally twitching and trembling all night, as if I was having mini seizures.

The next day, my distress melted into relief when the results of the MRI came back negative, but with no indication of what was causing my physical suffering, the bewilderment and fear remained.

When disorientation, heavy fatigue, a lack of concentration, vision problems, and short-term memory loss joined the group of symptoms already invading my body, my existence became unbearable with pervading fear, and the fear fed my long-held, and always unreasonable, feeling that I would die an untimely death.

Over the next several weeks, I continued seeking help from several top physicians. Yet after enduring extensive tests and probing of my body, the doctors repeatedly told me, “You are one of the healthiest patients I have ever seen.”

As the dizziness intensified, I began to have a severe increase in appetite —to the point of shoveling food in my mouth at alarming rates. The insatiable hunger was felt not only in my stomach, but in my head and throat. Even after ingesting four burritos, the emptiness in my stomach penetrated and debilitated me.

Within weeks, my body erupted in mounting symptoms: sore throats, a pulling feeling in my lungs, swollen lymph nodes in my neck, terrible gas pains, stomach cramps, and diarrhea. Driving more than a few miles became impossible without having to find a restroom. Pulling to the side of the road, doubled over with abdominal pain, became routine for me.

It began to take an extreme amount of effort to perform the simplest tasks, and depression attached itself to my mind like the pervasive overcast that creeps along the northern Pacific Coast each spring, gripping the mountains.

Unlike ocean fog, the haze in my brain never lifted.

I saw some of the best internists, neurologists, and cardiologists in the state, and my bed became nothing more than a place to lay awake at night, wondering what disease was killing me, only to be told by doctors that nothing could be found.

It was subtle madness.

Almost a year into the illness, more than thirty different physical symptoms haunted my daily existence, and I repeatedly suffered from outbreaks of shingles, which is a virus that attacks the nervous system.

The shingles always lodged itself as an eruption of unsightly blisters on the left side of my neck, right at my jaw line, and included terrible pain in my head and left ear. Although it was obvious that my body was desperately trying to send me a message, I wasn’t ready to listen.

I didn’t even understand the language.

By spring of 1995, panic attacks began. I couldn’t drive my car without a feeling of impending doom. Streets that I had driven hundreds of times before, now created an indefinable fear of death in my mind. Shaking, I would turn the car around, go back home, and lock myself inside with the shades drawn. Barricaded in the house, I waited until the sun went down before retrieving the mail. I screened all phone calls and rarely answered the door.

I told two close friends what was happening. One of them was extremely supportive. The other stopped being my friend.

I didn’t reveal my illness to my biological family because they had never been very functional at speaking about matters of importance. Uncomfortable subjects were forbidden. My three older sisters, Abigail, Kylie, Madison, and myself, all learned this lesson from our mother, who was highly skilled at maintaining relationships purely with superficial pleasantries.

Any memory of my mother being nurturing or deeply kind to me were non-existent. Our relationship had always seemed as though we both mechanically loved one another. We tried our best to behave as mother and daughter would be expected to, but for me, the unnaturalness was too much to bear.

Abigail was my oldest sibling, followed by Kylie, and then Madison. Memories of my childhood home were so scant, and I had little memory of Abigail and Kylie, as well as very few memories of Madison.

The only real memories I retained about my childhood were of attending Catholic school. One memory which always stuck with me, was sitting in Mother Superior’s office in third grade with another little girl, being reprimanded for rolling our plaid uniform skirts up too high. We squirmed in our chairs while being told that showing our knees was unacceptable.

I also remember frequently allowing two boys touch my crotch during math class.

My father died of cancer when I was twelve, but even in my teens, I could barely remember him. Until the time of his death, and even in the years following his demise, my entire childhood had been virtually extinguished from my mind.

I could recall my father’s overpowering height and hulk-like exterior, and family photos revealed an extremely handsome man in his younger years. More recent photos depicted a balding man with grey hair, but in my eyes, he always remained attractive.

My father had been a police officer, but no memory existed about this except that he converted our garage into a game room for Monday night poker, where off-duty police officers could stop by for a beer on tap. One of my only happy childhood memories consisted of trying to hang around the poker room, sneaking a sip of beer when my father happened to be in a jovial mood. Although I have no memory of his demeanor, as adults, my sisters spoke of my father as being dictatorial. His explosive anger was apparently common knowledge, and he had a dry sense of humor. I remember laughing at one of his jokes, and two fragmentary memories of his temper passed though my mind from time to time. Both involved him throwing objects across a room.

Other than Monday night poker, my family didn’t have much of a social life. As an adult, Kylie said she always felt trapped in our childhood home. Kylie said she only felt free while walking to and from school. She also told me that we never really went anywhere, or had anyone over to the home.

Abigail, Kylie, and I all shared memory that our father was an alcoholic, but any mention of this brought vehement denial from my mother; maybe because it was my mother who handed him his scotch and water when he walked in the door from work.

Denial and minimizing was the way my mother survived, so I knew that speaking with her about my illness would result in the same kind of negation, or attempt to minimize my physical problems.

From my journal, July 24 1995:

The nightmares which plague me have increased and are even more frightening. The majority of the dreams consist of intruders coming into my home, in an attempt to rape me. Other dreams are filled with waves the size of tall buildings about to envelop me, but I always wake just before drowning and before being raped.

Panic attacks come without warning. Sleep is little and tortured. When I do manage to drift off, the physical discomfort prohibits any real rest. The nightmares frequently wake me up. Bolting out of the terror, the clock reads 3:00 a.m.


By late summer of that year, while driving to see yet another medical specialist, I began to envision what it would be like to turn my car off the highway into the ocean. Looking out over the stillness of the water, I saw peace. The waves moved effortlessly, like a baby’s breath. In the water I would find no uncertainty, no fear, no more physical suffering or nightmares, and no more examinations from impersonal doctors. I also knew that turning the wheel in the direction of self-termination would not cure my torment, so I abandoned my momentary thought of suicide, and continued down the highway to the appointment.

Before long I was having instruments inserted into my ears by the Otolaryngologist. He was performing medical-induced vertigo and looking for tumors. After the completion of the invasive tests, the specialist concluded there were no tumors, but he felt I might be suffering from chronic fatigue immune dysfunction syndrome (now known as myalgic encephalomyelitis).

At first I didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared; I was simply stunned over a diagnosis. Then the doctor told me there is no treatment and no cure for the disease. Bewildered, I asked what could be done for the dizziness, diarrhea, pain, and neurological problems. He casually replied,

“Rest in the afternoon.”

Uncertain of how to respond to the doctor’s cold and ridiculous advice, I thanked him for his time and left the office. Knowing this was not a sufficient answer for me, I consulted two experts on cfids/ME. Both doctors agreed with the diagnosis, and that there is no known cure. It became clear the medical industry could not help me, so I began searching for answers in books on holistic healing. Nothing proved valuable, except to confirm the illness.

By then, my daily routine was waking to stomach cramps and diarrhea, but still feeling the need to force food in my mouth. The gas pain, dizziness, and sore throats were close to unbearable by midday, and the fatigue felt like someone had drugged me and was holding me down with a giant foot.

In the evening, I usually had ringing and popping in my ears, abdominal cramps, and swollen lymph nodes. When the physical suffering was so incapacitating that death would have been preferable, I realized what one of the cfids/ME specialists meant when he told me,

“The good news about this condition is that you are not going to die. The bad news is that you are not going to die.”


In early fall of 1995, I developed sore muscles, numbness of my limbs, and new and unusual stomach aches. The short-term memory loss grew worse. It became necessary to re-do simple daily tasks because I could not recall having just performed them. Remembering common words and names grew increasingly difficult, and I began to experience extreme mental disorientation.

After sleeping until nine in the morning, unbearable exhaustion forced me to take a nap by noon. Awakened un-refreshed, I lay in bed for entire days at a time.

Something was horribly wrong. In a desperate attempt to be heard, my body screamed for my attention, but I was not yet ready to listen.

From my journal, September 30, 1995:

I can feel it entering my nervous system. I have become aware of it moving around, like an entity inside of me — a living energy traveling around my body. Yesterday it was blurred vision and a sore throat; last night, diarrhea. Today it has decided to attack my nerves. It’s like it has a will of its own.

After writing these words I forced myself to prepare a meal. Even making food had become a laborious act, but the incessant feeling of starvation meant a never-ending need to stuff food down my throat.

As I half-heartedly dragged the bread and cheese out of the refrigerator, my thoughts drifted to nowhere. Spacing out had become routine. While slicing the bread, I watched the motion of the large knife in my hand and wondered if I had the guts to cut my wrist. Get it over with. Kill the pain inside. In the weeks that followed, I often thought about driving my car off a cliff in the nearby canyon. Any possibility of ending the chaos in my mind and body could not be overruled.


My sisters eventually learned about my physical problems because the point came when I could no longer pretend that things were fine, and one of them told my mother about my illness. Shortly after, Kylie revealed that my mother’s response to my suffering and numerous doctor visits was to call me a “Camille,” a character from the Alexandre Dumas novel. Apparently Camille was always sick and she eventually died. My mother’s cold and ignorant remark gave me one more reason to keep most of the knowledge of my illness to myself. I felt it impossible to share my pain with a mother who would be so callous about her daughter’s agony.


When I first became sick, a friend referred me to her hypnotherapist, but I ignored her suggestion. Consciously I wasn’t willing to try something that I had never even heard of, and subconsciously, I was not ready to face the ugly truths locked inside my mind and body.

I tried to justify my decision to not call the hypnotherapist by reminding myself that I had already seen two conventional therapists and neither had helped me. The first, a psychologist, told me I needed to get out of the house more often. The other, a psychiatrist, prescribed an anti-depressant within half an hour of my first visit. I took one dose of the Prozac and subsequently suffered a panic attack. When I told him about my reaction to the drug, he said, “Oh yeah, that can happen.”

I never took another psychotropic drug again.

So nearly two years into the illness, desperation forced me to make a phone call that would change my life forever.

Even though the mainstream medical and psychological experts had been unable to help me, I was skeptical of hypnoanalysis. I didn’t know much about it, and didn’t even know what psychoanalysis was, but when I realized that suicide was my only other option, I made the call.

The hypnoanalyst lived in another state, so the therapy sessions would be done over the telephone. Although, at first, this seemed odd, I realized it would be no different from seeing a therapist in an office; the benefits of treatment don’t derive from seeing a person’s face. I was also able to have the therapy from the privacy and comfort of my own bedroom.

In the initial phone call, my hypnotherapist explained how conventional therapy concentrates on the conscious mind, whereas hypnotherapy, gradually penetrates the subconscious mind where our true emotions and repressed experiences are retained in order to protect us from emotional pain, and to enable us to function and maintain relationships with anyone attached to those experiences –those who caused the pain.

She helped me understand how the tool of hypnotherapy allows the client to discover what is causing their distress. They do so, by their own will, and in their own time.

Typically, conventional therapists place a label on their client after a few sessions of dialogue or they diagnose the patient based on a general list of symptoms. But with hypnoanalysis, my psychodynamics would come directly from the source —my own mind, and not from the personal conclusion of someone else, or from a text book interpretation of generalized symptoms. This organic method struck me as profound and I scheduled my first telephone session.

The hypnoanalysis turned out to be nothing like I had expected. I maintained complete awareness of my surroundings, every word my therapist said, as well as each thought that entered my mind. Yet I found the sessions to provide me with the ability to be in touch with my deep emotions, and this caused my mind to revive conflicts and fears which I had not thought about in decades.

During the first few weeks of therapy, the sessions involuntarily stimulated the recall of the never-forgotten memories of normal tormentors that most children encounter in grade school. It impressed me to discover that even though I had not thought about these people in decades, they still had a subconscious affect on me.

After re-experiencing, and then expressing the repressed emotions, I created a positive solution, contrary to what had originally taken place. I did this by imagining scenarios that had been unavailable to me as a child. In the regressions, I faced the popular girls in class who had been critical of me. I told them that their friendship was no longer important to me, and I fired a teacher who had once been cruel to me. This way, the childhood event no longer affected me.

As therapy progressed, the people I had issues with were no longer schoolmates. They soon became an old boyfriend, a previous employer, and then…my mother.

Even prior to having therapy, I knew my mother never wanted to be pregnant with me. When I was an adult she openly revealed her feelings about not ever wanting children, but the power of this, and my mother’s lack of regard for me, had not truly shown itself until the pain of her emotional abandonment began to surface in my regression therapy.

At first it was tremendously difficult for me to deal with any suffering connected to my mother. Bound by my religious upbringing, which had commanded me to honor my parents, I felt a huge sense of guilt for discovering such negative feelings towards her.

It took numerous sessions before I understood that I was not a bad girl who should be punished for being angry inside. As I began to tap into my long-repressed resentment, it gradually became liberating to release those emotions.

Part of discharging the pain involved replacing my mother (in my mind), who never wanted me –replacing her with the perfect mother floating into my thoughts. The woman who appeared was myself, as the grown adult woman I had become, and instead of allowing the anger towards my mother to affect my life, I transformed it into a peaceful solution in the therapy sessions.

The process of learning how to love myself and to honor my true feelings had begun.

This became the first step in letting go of my need to have my mother be who and what she had no capacity to become, and this led me to forgive her for resenting me for having been born.

During the first few months of hypnoanalysis, there was no expectation of connecting my childhood with my physical affliction. I began the therapy in hope of driving away the depression and thoughts of suicide. To my amazement, after resolving the emotional deprivation of being unwanted by my mother, a number of my physical symptoms suddenly disappeared. The power of the mind was illuminating. Cfids/ME is a medical diagnosis, so I had no belief that any change would occur in my body. My therapist had not disclosed to me that my mind had the power to create the illness, and thus, the power to heal it. She instead allowed the process to gradually unfold on its own.

The blurred vision and lack of concentration were the first to go, followed by the unusual headaches and the numbness in my limbs. While symptoms were being expelled, my emotional well-being began to emerge out of the depths of my previous malady.

The therapy worked like a surgical procedure, removing pain from my body, but by using my mind, not a knife. It was not unusual to feel as if I was recovering from surgery. By the afternoon, or the next morning, I always felt clearer, more cheerful, and I began to reconnect with the person I truly am, the person who was once buried beneath the toxic clutter of hidden emotions.

As time went by, further exploration into my childhood triggered events much more disturbing to a child than having a mother who never desired to have children.

Something ugly stirred inside of me, and made itself known by manifesting physically. Symptoms that were linked to the less serious grief had vanished, but different physical problems began to replace them.

Although I didn’t realize it at the time, the new symptoms were memories that I had not previously been willing to deal with. Unbeknownst to me, the therapy was healing me, but also forcing me to begin slaying dragons that I never even knew existed.

One of those dragons had manifested itself in the form of a sharp pain which shot through my lower pelvic area. The stabbing came from inside my vagina, and was so painful, that it caused me to clutch the edge of the bathroom sink until it passed.

Although I had experienced the vaginal pain on many occasions -even long before beginning the therapy- it never before had such intensity.

Regular gynecological appointments had consistently ruled out any physiological problem, and curiously, the pain only came when I walked into my bathroom. However, my self-survival system depended on me pushing this knowledge into the back of my mind. It was easier to deny the existence of the vaginal pain, and thus, ignore the dragon.
In an attempt to fool myself into thinking that denial would be successful, I kept the pain a secret from my therapist.


Rather than deal with the haunting vaginal pain in therapy, I chose instead to ask my therapist if we could work on the shingles outbreaks. The latest attack had caused the pustules to spread down my neck more than usual.

As I drifted off into a hypnotic regression, she told me to focus my mind on my neck. As I followed her instruction, time slipped away. Suddenly it was the late 1960’s and I found myself sitting in the backseat of my family’s old station wagon. The second this memory surfaced, fear invaded my body, and I felt myself curl into the fetal position on my bed.

In the memory, I felt the afternoon desert sun beating down on the vinyl car seats, heating them like an oven. Someone was wearing a sun hat; my sister Abigail, maybe. As I vaguely recalled the vacation road trip, the memory brought back the awareness of all three of my sisters and my mother being present in the car. My father was at the wheel.

The tension in the car was suffocating. Abigail looked fearful as she slumped down in the back seat. My father was putting our lives in his hands by dangerously trying to pass a slower vehicle in front of us. I was aware of Kylie and Madison in the car but they were not significant in the memory. My mother, however, was prominent because in spite of another car rapidly approaching us in the same lane, she was disturbingly quiet. The rush of adrenaline punched me in the pit of my stomach.

My feelings as a child flooded my mind. My father seemed obsessed with his own needs and he lacked self-control. I could recall thinking that he felt driving recklessly was acceptable because he was a police officer. I’m sure he thought he was a great driver, but being on the police force didn’t give him permission to place our lives at risk, and instead of trying to protect us by speaking up, my mother just sat there and said nothing.

My body lay on the bed in the therapy session, but my subconscious mind was back in time, inside that station wagon.

My therapist told me to mentally make myself as tall as a building and to reprimand my father. Without thought, a child-like voice came from my mouth and I heard the child inside of me say to my father, “You have no right to put us in danger dad! Stop the car!”

The relief was immediate. After thirty years of holding in what I had wanted to say as a child, my body exhaled the fear and anger at my father.

I bravely told him, “and I’m going to take over the driving, you got that?”

In the session, in my mind, I pictured taking the wheel, and told my father to sit in the rear of the car with the ice chest and luggage. I scolded my mother for not protecting us, and this felt exceptionally wonderful. I really let her have it, “You should have told him to slow down! You didn’t do your job as a mother so I am taking it away from you. I don’t need you! I am my own mother now.”

In the next scene in my mind, I drove the family station wagon at a safe rate of speed, even hanging my arm outside the window. As I carefully cruised along the open road, I felt liberated. Unlike my father, I was in no hurry, and in my bedroom during this therapy session, I was no longer in the fetal position. Safety enveloped me. The act of rescuing myself from danger, and lack of protection, had begun.


In January of 1996, my first deeply repressed memory came afloat. In the regression, I found myself hiding in the closet of my old bedroom. Crouching down, I could feel the clothing hanging around my head and smelled the musty closet odor that made the memory all too real.

When my therapist asked me what I was doing in the closet, I replied, “I’m hiding.”

My words took me by surprise. My father having driven the speeding car seemed somewhat familiar, but this memory felt like I was touching on something more obscure. At the same time, I felt an instinctual awareness that this indeed happened to me.
Although no recall entered my mind about whom or what I was hiding from, there was a distinct understanding that I was a small, vulnerable little girl, cowering in the closet.

My therapist had me concentrate on the fear and asked me to tell her what was going on. I became aware in my memory that my father was approaching the bedroom. As the vibration of his powerful presence filled the hallway, my body froze stiff. I could not see my father, but I sensed the anger and relentless persistence in his footsteps.

During the regression, I had no understanding about what caused this situation, but knew I was a terrified child hiding from a threat. I heard it in my voice and felt it in my veins. Suddenly my fear diminished when the footsteps continued past my bedroom door and disappeared into the bedroom of my two older sisters, Abigail and Kylie. Had I been spared that time? The regression felt so real that I even referred to my sister Abigail as “Abby.” I had not called her that name in over thirty years. As an adult, I always called her “Abigail.”

No further sound was heard. My mind went blank, and there seemed nothing more to remember. My therapist asked me to end my regression by envisioning a magic wand that would take away the fear. She then told me to grow big in my mind and to come out of the closet without the fear.

As instructed, I imagined bursting down the closet door, knocking it to the ground, and my body heaved out terror that had been lodged inside me for three decades.

Relieved of the energies that were unknowingly bottled up inside my mind and body for decades, I ended the session as my own perfect mother -myself. I took my little hand and led my inner child out the front door of the home I grew up in.

My only question, was where was the extreme fear coming from?

I was not ready to know…

Chapter Two: The Plastic Sheet to follow soon.


© 2016 Alethea Marina-Nova. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

Posted in Child Abuse, child molestation, Health, Holistic, Mind, Body, Spirit | Tagged , , , , | 13 Comments

Memoir: Forward and Acknowledgments


e65466b972d9c2dca7bc6722629135af By Alethea Marina Nova

In 1994 I suddenly became seriously ill with a disease that some of the best medical doctors in the country could not diagnose. After almost a year of debilitating physical suffering, unrelenting fear, repeated examinations, lab tests, EKGs, heart stress tests, an MRI of my brain, and intrusive medical procedures…the doctors could not help me.

This was the moment that I began my journey of my own mind and discovered on a personal level that total repression of interpersonal violence is real, understandable, and essential for some children to protect themselves from the unbearable pain of incest, child sexual abuse, child rape, torture, death threats, and severe emotional abandonment.

Before I regained my memory, if someone had asked me, “what’s the worst thing that happened to you in your childhood?” With no doubt,  I would have answered, “the death of my father when I was twelve.”

I was a lie to my own self.

As an adult, when traumatic memories begin to come back to consciousness, denial can be a part of the memories themselves. The child denied to survive, so the adult will try and repeat that pattern. But denial never works because it is impossible to lie to ourselves forever.

Our soul knows the truth, and when the truth is remembered, people who find the courage to reveal it to siblings, or a parent, often learn that there can be psychological punishment from family members who liked it much better when the truth was hidden. I learned this in the most emotionally brutal way possible…but what my biological family did to me, only made me made me stronger, and drove me to be more vocal.

Truth heals the mind and the body, and it takes tremendous courage to be honest with yourself by releasing unwanted truths from the depths of the unconscious. It takes a soul that is longing to be free, and a personal will to endure anything to get there.

I am hoping other victims and survivors of child sexual abuse, and incest, will read Ordinary Evil with a desire to convert their pain into strength, and to use that power to speak their truth.

Ordinary Evil: Memoir of a Buried Life, is about my passage of transformation from victim into warrior, and I want to take my readers on that journey because I have carried the sickness of my story inside my soul far too long. It was like being in a prison for decades with no human contact.

Yet, I also held the key.

True fortitude is to look within the darkness of one’s own soul –into one’s own subconscious mind. “Psyche,” as in psychology, or psychoanalysis, means “soul” and we must be willing to face the darkness of our emotional pain, and face that darkness and to heal it in a true and dynamic way.

The trauma of victims and the agony of survivors drove me to write these memoirs with the hope that others will also want to heal themselves in the most powerful way there is, through self-confrontation, honesty, and a desire to see the darkness in themselves and then transform it.

“I know that Alethea has an enormous treasure trove of experience, strength and hope to offer to not only those of us that have survived abuse, but to countless others, as well. I came to know, from reading the comprehensive articles she fearlessly posts – that she is an unmistakable, undeniable voice of uncompromising values, when it comes to standing up and speaking out on sexual abuse — in all of its many forms.” ~A Survivor

“I love Alethea’s writing – forthright, clear with each revelation, though emotionally stirring, so immeasurably insightful. I always find myself so lifted by your determined courage – the hope and possibilities for healing unmistakable – as woven throughout your journey to wholeness.” ~Anonymous Survivor


I owe my freedom to my psychotherapist, and to myself, for not being afraid to confront the darkness.

To the people who were called my parents: The trauma, emotional pain, betrayal, lies, and sexual abuse you put me through have made me strong, and allowed me to help others, so for that, I owe you a huge debt of gratitude…

Author’s Note

These memoirs are not being published to harm, or embarrass, anyone in my biological family. It was written to put my grain of sand into the world so I might help adult survivors of child sexual abuse, trauma, and incest –but especially for all the little children still suffering right now.

In order to protect the privacy of my family members, I have used fictitious names for everyone except myself. This is out of privacy for them, not because I am trying to hide. I have no more shame. More importantly, I have no more fear.


This book does not propose that any person should avoid seeking medical attention, or a medical diagnosis, for any particular physical symptom, illness, or disease. This book is merely my personal experience with illness and disease. This book should never replace medical care, nor should its contents, or my experience, be used as a way for someone to heal themselves of any medical or psychological condition.

Chapter One to follow soon…

© 2017 Alethea Marina Nova. All rights reserved. No part of these memoirs may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, saving to your computer, copying and pasting elsewhere, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

These articles may be posted on people’s Facebook Page as a link, or on Pintrest, Twitter, or any other social and sharing media –as long as it is shared as a link.


Posted in Child Abuse | 6 Comments

Publishing My Memoirs On My Blog


“Our backs tell stories no book has the spine to carry” ~Rup Kaur

I have decided it is time to change that.

Many of my long time readers and friends, have patiently waited for me to publish my memoirs in a book. Yet, these memoirs remained unpublished due to fear, lack of confidence, and worrying what the reader’s response would be. My answer to that last concern is, who cares? I have to be able to speak my truth without regard of the reaction of others, and I have finally gained enough self-confidence that I have decided to publish my memoirs, for free, right here on my Blog.

What about fear? Fear stops us from living, from helping others, and if we are not careful, it can create sickness and self-harm.

I know damn well that survivors of child sexual abuse and incest are tired of books that coddle them. They want stark truth, not feel-good words or catch phrases. They don’t need positive thinking, and they don’t want to be lied to.

Most survivors want to read material that is ‘not acceptable’ for conversation.

My memoirs are rebellious and liberating -probably even shocking-but include the rawness of vulnerability and childhood innocence.

My hope is for my memoirs to quench the thirst for validation which is desperately needed by those who have experienced delayed memories of child sexual abuse and incest. I also hope my memoirs will furnish those in the field of psychology with fresh perspective about dissociation and traumatic memory repression, and to aid mental health experts by providing a better comprehension of the mind of a victim.

My dream is also to help people in the medical field to pay attention to the fact that the power of the mind can create, and heal, serious illness and disease. My story can open their eyes.

~Alethea Marina Nova

Title and Forward to follow in my next post.



Posted in Child Abuse, child molestation, child sexual abuse, Crime, dissociative amnesia, evil, Headlines, Health, Holistic, Mind, Body, Spirit, News, repressed memory | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

The Vagina Monologues Promotes Child Molestation and Rape


The Vagina Monologues, was created by Eve Ensler, who placed a scene in the play called, “The Little Coochie Snorcher That Could.”

In the skit, a 24-year-old woman seduces a 13-year-old girl with alcohol, and then sexually molests her. By moral law, this is RAPE, and it is a crime under the law.

In the play, the little girl declared:

“Now people say it was a kind of rape … Well, I say if it was rape, it was a good rape…”

After concerned individuals complained about The Vagina Monologues, the reference to “good rape” was stopped in some performances of the play, but the so-called ‘positive’ experience of a young girl being seduced and sexually abused by a grown woman, remained the theme.

In the play, the little girl raved about her orgasm (an orgasm brought on, during an act of child sexual abuse). The child proclaims in the play, “she gently and slowly lays me out on the bed”… “I’ll never need to rely on a man.”

In updated versions of the play (also due to complaints by the public), the 13 year-old girl was changed to a 16 year-old. However, even a sixteen year-old girl does not have the discrimination to make rational decisions when seduced and manipulated by an older woman who, by age alone, is an authority figure to the girl, and usually someone the victim trusts or looks up to.

The suggestion that female-female sexual abuse is “good” for the child, and not sexual abuse at all, was made quite clear in this play.

The Vagina Monologues encouraged the disturbing belief that if a woman sexually molests a female child, it’s okay, and even good for the little girl.

The Vagina Monologues is presented nationwide, every year on Valentine’s Day, a day which symbolizes Love, devotion, self-sacrifice, courtship, and romance. This play has devalued what true Love is, by advertising the play as “V” Day, as in “vagina” and by running the play ‘in honor’ of Valentine’s Day.

This play has nothing to do with Love, romance, courtship, or mutual respect in a committed relationship. The Vagina Monologues consists of numerous monologues read by many different actresses, with each of the monologues addressing varying aspects of female experiences, like sex, love, rape, menstruation, female genital mutilation, masturbation, birth, and orgasm.

The recurring theme of the play is that the vagina is a tool of female empowerment, and ‘the ultimate embodiment of individuality’ and the play goes into tampons and tools used in OBGYN exams, and even considers the word “cunt” to be positive.

Supporters of the play praise its fund-raising abilities, and that it will help “end violence against women.” On the contrary, this play encourages violence against women.

The Vagina Monologues, is alarming on multiple levels.

Many versions of this play not only promotes female to female child molestation against a teenage girl, but the play portrays the idea that women don’t even need men –that they should become lesbians.

The play also annihilates the beautiful concept of Valentine’s Day and denegrates it into a day for the celebration of lesbians, child abuse, vaginas, and feminism.

Women, by nature, are supposed to be the protectors of children, not the abusers of them.

Throughout time, females have been counted on to retain compassion, dignity, and the right for life to exist. It is women who have been given the sole right to nurse a child, and who have been looked to for comforting victims, and are the only gender to be able to give birth to a child.

Feminism, is not about empowering women. Feminism -as it stands- has nothing to do with women’s rights, equal pay, or political, social and economic equality to men.

There is nothing empowering about ‘talking vaginas,’ the degradation of women, the physical and emotional power of sexually abusing a child, or the purposeful degradation of men. It is not empowering for a woman to discuss her vagina.

Empowerment of women begins when women stop only defending one another, and instead, defend truth, justice, femininity, children -and men when men need defending or nurturing, or to feel like real men.

The empowerment of women begins when women stop believing they are the superior sex (both sexes have good qualities), that they don’t need men, and when they honor the true feminine qualities of grace, compassion, softness, inner beauty, and respect and dignity for all life, and for men.

Powerful women look to the good attributes of men, and admire them, by uplifting men with honor and respect for their goodness, masculinity, and as the defenders of women and children that manhood is supposed to be.

How can women expect a man to be a protector and a guardian of women, if women continue to demoralize men, and make them feel obsolete?

Powerful women use their bodies as a way to be gentle and powerful simultaneously.

Women were once considered Sacred in this world, but feminism has all but abolished the sanctity of women.

Ultimately, Valentine’s Day, is linked to Saint Valentine. Saints represent sanctity, holiness, self-sacrifice, and consecration to a place of honor and reverence.

This is what women should strive for –not to be more powerful than men, or to outdo them, or to replace them –but to raise their consciousness to a place where men desire to revere women again.

If women want to end violence against women, then they need to begin by looking at themselves, and their role in how men see them.

It’s no wonder why so many men are full of anger and resentment, and feelings of inadequacy. A lot of women -especially feminists- treat men like crap by degrading them, and by minimizing their important role in life.

Love has respect for both genders, and Love honors the innate qualities in each sex.

May the innocence and intrinsic love in children, remind you of Valentine’s day.


Posted in Child Abuse | 15 Comments