Stop Picking Your Face!
Betrayal in intergenerational ritual abuse.
Betrayal lies at the heart of intergenerational ritual abuse. It’s the foundation on which all activities arise. Each member of the family experiences betrayal and participates in betraying others. There is no genuine care or concern, no real trust, no real love in those families. Experiences are designed to continually break and manipulate the child; messages are instilled at the most traumatic moment, messages that haunt and control the child for decades. The family patriarchs retain their control, secrets remain hidden, and group activities continue for the next generation. This is how mind control works in ritual abuse.
When I was 12 years old, I contracted chickenpox from my younger sister. She was 6 years old at the time. Because she was younger, she didn’t get as sick as I did; her symptoms were extremely mild. She gave it to me within a matter of days, before my parents knew we should be separated. My parents used the opportunity to abuse and humiliate me and instill programming that affected me until I was 48-years old. The programming was this: whenever I was sick, I was meant to contact my mother.
Programming like this is done with a specific message- to call the survivor back to the group, or specifically, to the handler of the survivor. My mother was my handler for most of my life; she instilled programming herself through betrayal, humiliation, physical and emotional abuse, and neglect. The only time my mother was nice to me was when I was sick. The only time she showed what appeared to be genuine care and concern was when I was sick. This was intentional. Going back to the group or handler means the survivor will endure further abuse.
At home, in the early stages of my illness, I experienced high fevers. One night in particular I had a fever of 105 degrees. That night I walked into the kitchen looking for a snack. I was sleepwalking and incoherent. Mother guided me back to my bed where she took my temperature. When she saw how high it was, she took immediate action. She was fast and attentive, calling for ice packs, an air of authority in her voice. She tenderly swabbed my sweaty face with cool rags and checked on me throughout the night.
I had huge sores on my face for weeks, which was both terrifying and embarrassing at the same time. Mother continually chided me to stop picking my face. The itchiness of the sores was intense, however. I scratched my face in the middle of my sleep. After the sores faded, I was left with crater-like scars on my forehead which I didn’t mind but mother made a big deal about.
A few weeks into my recovery, my class took a field trip to see the 1986 World’s Exposition Fair in Vancouver, Canada. I wanted to go but I didn’t want to be seen as I still had sores and scabs on my face. I ended up going after lots of discussion about missing out on once-in-a-lifetime experiences. No one wanted to sit next to me on the charter bus, which was kind of nice because I got to sleep on the way back. I ended up walking around the fair with a teacher and saw a lot of cool things. Overall, however, the experience was extremely humiliating, and I never connected with a group of classmates after that. I was very isolated throughout my school years.
When I got mastitis after the birth of my second child, my mother was the person I called to come take care of me. Mother was at her most tender whenever I was sick. I longed for her care for decades because of those early experiences. I think about my mother’s own experience in childhood that likely caused her to be like this: when she was 10 years old, she contracted Scarlett Fever after her mother failed to take her to the doctor for what would have been an easily curable strep throat infection. Her attentiveness could have been the result of being severely neglected. Scarlett Fever ravaged her heart, and she was left with an aortic aneurysm- a small balloon on a vessel in her heart that, to this day, could burst at any moment.
When I was in my early-20s, mother took me to a dermatologist with the intention of reducing the appearance of the scars. As we sat discussing the course of treatment with the doctor, mother made a big deal out of the impact the treatment would have on my appearance. I would need to wear bandages for a couple of weeks. I didn’t mind but again, mother made a big deal of it. Because of this, it was decided I would not get treatment at that time. Even this, the promise of help or change, was offered but then immediately taken away. A gift was given, but then taken back and thrown away at the end. This experience was repeated over and over throughout my life.
Betrayal leaves a lasting impact on a child and how they view others. I became very detached from outcomes, people, and things. I had to learn how to be good either way, how to connect or disconnect at a moment’s notice. It’s not that I didn’t care about people or things; I just had to be prepared to very quickly not care as a sort of protective mechanism. Another effect of betrayal is becoming very independent. This, perhaps, is an unintended side effect that must be countered through experiences like I had in contracting chickenpox. Mother provided comfort and physical care that I didn’t feel I could provide for myself, even as an adult. I would always need to call her to come take care of me. At least, that’s what she wanted.