Fallout, Part I: The Abuse Discovered

Lewis County, Washington, where my family and I lived in the early 1980s, was not a good place for victims of domestic violence.  For one thing, the economy depended largely on the lumber industry for economic growth and stability, and in the early 1980s many mill owners in the area began shipping their logs to Asia for milling and shut down their local mills, laying off workers who were raising families on their wages.  Thus, the towns of eastern and western Lewis County suffered financial losses and a decline in public morale.  Grocery stores were less busy, and the Salvation Army food bank was overwhelmed by people needing food.

Due to revenue shortfalls, the county government cut staff, and all social service agencies supported by the county cut their budgets.  Among the agencies to see a reduction in funds was the local domestic violence shelter.  This move made no sense to me because during times of high unemployment, the number of domestic violence incidents normally increased, making the availability of shelters all the more important.  Due to the political, economic, and social problems during the early 1980s, then, communities in Lewis County fell short in their accommodations for victims of domestic violence.  

Considering the factors described above, the Monday before Easter of 1981 was not an ideal time to report my husband to the police, but I had no choice, for a few days earlier I had caught my husband in the act of sexually abusing our thirteen-year-old daughter.  I did not really understand what had happened when I entered that twilit room on the preceding Thursday when my husband and my daughter were watching television, but I saw the fear in my daughter’s eyes and the guilt on my husband’s face as they abruptly sat up, and I knew that if evil truly existed, it existed right then and right there in that room.  

I backed out of the room and sat in the dimly lit kitchen, folding clothes.  My daughter went silently to her room, and my husband went outside to work in the barn.  I followed my daughter and helped her get ready for bed.  I said nothing about the incident to either of them at the time because I needed some time to decide how I would handle the situation, but I knew I would not leave my daughter alone with her father. 

The next day, Friday, I had no opportunity to talk to my daughter by herself because my husband came home early, before she came home from school, and did not let either of us out of his sight.  On Saturday morning, however, he decided after breakfast to dig post holes in our pasture.  He tried to get our daughter to go with him, but I insisted that she had chores to do in the house, and he didn’t force the issue.  After he had left and I was convinced he would be gone a while, I took my daughter to the living room couch and gently questioned her.  The following is what I noted of our actual dialog.  I had the wits to make notes after I talked to my daughter because I did not want to forget what was said.   

I:  What is your daddy doing with you? 

At first she won't look me in the eye and she won't answer.  I take her hands in mine and tell her what I saw. Then she talks to me: 

She: Daddy told me that if I told you, you would be jealous and you wouldn't love me anymore. 

I:   Did you believe him? 

She: Yes. 

I:   (Holding her in my arms)  I'm not jealous, and I do love  you.  Do you believe that? 

She: Yes, I do now.  But Daddy made me believe everything he told me.  He told me that he was doing those things to me because he cared about me and wanted to help me learn about men. 

I:   When did he start doing those things to you? 

She: Right after we got back from Germany.  (We returned home from Germany late in 1978.) 

I:   Was I at home when he did them? 

She: No, you were usually at the store or shopping.  (Starts to cry.)  But sometimes he would come upstairs to check my homework when you were washing the dishes.  If I was fooling around instead of doing my homework, I'd get scared, and then I'd tell him I wanted him to teach me more about boys.  That kept him from getting mad at me about my homework. 

I hold her while she cries, and then we plan the rest of the weekend. 

On Sunday, my daughter and I went to church, and then after I had prepared a big dinner, I took her to a movie in the afternoon.  I don’t remember what we watched.  All I know is that while we were at the theater, we weren’t afraid of my husband.  Then, when we got home, my daughter and I ate, and she went to bed.  I stayed up to make sure that my husband stayed away from her room, and I made sure he was sound asleep before I went to bed.  I thought about sleeping in her room, but I didn’t because if I had done that, my husband would have known I knew what he had done to our daughter.  I didn’t want him to know until I had talked to a social worker and had a chance to make a plan of action. 

 

On Monday I called a social worker and told her what had happened.  She wanted to report the incident immediately, but I told her I wanted to confront my husband when he came home from work that evening and report him myself.  She told me that if I had not called her by ten on Tuesday morning, she would report him.  I told her that I would protect my daughter and would confront and report my husband when he came home from work that night and would call her before ten on Tuesday morning.   She agreed, and I hung up. 

I’ve often wondered why I insisted on confronting my husband rather than simply reporting the incident to somebody at Social and Health Services and letting the matter take its course through the usual channels.  To this day, I am not entirely sure what I would say if somebody asked me about this.  I suspect, however, that I needed to bring my own closure to the mess.  Also, I did not trust the system in Lewis County to do the job effectively and efficiently.  Future events would prove that my distrust of the system was well founded. 

 

Part II:  Confronting Our Abuser, Ending the Violence